Page 49 of The Clifftop Cottage

He smiled apologetically. “People don’t come on holiday to feel sad, Ms Hayes. No one wants to be miserable, thinking about women burned hundreds of years ago. I understand feminism, of course,” he added quickly, “but that part of history really ought to be left alone.”

Erica stared at him.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, spreading his hands. “The budget just won’t allow it.”

Through the narrow office window, she could see the top of the statue in the park, bright and clean against the grey sky.

“Well,” Erica said, standing. “Thank you for your time.”

Peters beamed. “Any time.” Then, with a sudden ah, he pulled out his phone and held it up. “Would you mind? My daughter would be thrilled.”

Erica forced a smile that felt as stiff as the statue outside.

“Pleasure meeting you, Ms Hayes,” he said brightly. “I’m sure you know the way out.”

She did.

Outside, the wind rattled the bare branches. The clock tower chimed the hour – steady, indifferent.

Erica stood on the pavement, the sound of it echoing in her chest, and for the first time since arriving in Rock Cove, she didn’t know what to do next.

More leaves gathered at her feet, soft and slick underfoot.

She picked her way carefully back to her car, one cautious step at a time, suddenly aware of how easy it was to miss what was right there underfoot.

18

Morning light filtered weakly through the kitchen window, pale streaks lying across the wooden floor. Gabriel sat at the table, absently pushing his spoon around his bowl, the low hum of the kettle filling the quiet house. Chep lay curled at his feet, breathing slow and steady – a calm that only made the restlessness in Gabriel stand out more.

Another night on call.

Another broken sleep.

This time, a car accident. A family had lost control on a bend, veering off the road and slamming into the bank. When Gabriel arrived, he’d braced himself for the worst. The wreckage had been brutal – twisted metal, shattered glass – but somehow, they had all survived.

The father with broken ribs.

The mother with a fractured arm and pelvis, maybe more.

The boy in the back seat with blood running from a cut above his eye.

And the little girl.

Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment, seeing her again as he’d lifted her from the wreck, her small body trembling against his chest. No injuries. Just shock. Too lucky. As if the whole family had been handed a second chance.

He should have felt lighter.

Instead, the tension still sat in him, coiled and tight, refusing to unwind.

Restless, he abandoned his half-eaten breakfast and headed for the shower. The water came out scalding, but he didn’t turn it down. He let the heat bite into his skin, scrubbing at his arms and chest as though he could rinse away the weight of the night.

But it wasn’t just last night.

Dressed in jeans, he paused in front of the mirror. His gaze dropped to the jagged scar on his stomach. Without thinking, his fingers traced it – twisted metal, twenty stitches, a line that would never quite fade.

Some things healed.

Some things didn’t.