Page 157 of Neap & Spring

Right now it just feels like the ceiling above me and the city outside are closing in.

I’m sorry, I think to no one, to the ceiling, to the dark, to Callum who will never hear it.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Callum

The restaurant is dark.

It’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and Neap & Spring is closed. The dining room is empty. The chairs are still stacked on tabletops from when I sent everyone home this morning. The storm is supposed to hit any time now. It’s predicted to be the kind of coastal storm that makes the national news. Locally, it just sends everyone scrambling to tape windows and stock up on batteries and move their cars to higher ground.

Through the windows I can see the ocean absolutely raging. Waves are crashing against the rocks twenty feet higher than normal, sending spray halfway up the cliff face. The sky is black like someone pulled a curtain over the sun. The wind is screaming around the building, rattling every window, and testing every seal, finding all the weak points.

The weather service updated the warnings an hour ago. What was supposed to be a standard storm has intensified into something very dangerous. Winds gusting to eighty miles per hour. The storm surge is expected to flood the lower coastal roads. Trees down across the county. Power outages are imminent.

And Vivienne is in that fucking cottage.

That old, weathered, right-on-the-water cottage with the foundation that’s probably older than sand and the windows that don’t seal properly and the roof that Margo’s been meaning to replace for twenty years.

I told myself I’d give her space. She asked for time by herself, and I need to respect that. Showing up at her door when she explicitly said she needs to process everything alone would be pushing. And I refuse to make this about what I need instead of what she needs.

But the wind is gusting hard enough to make the whole building shudder, and all I can think about is her in that cottage, alone, with the storm bearing down.

I’m sitting at the bar in the near-dark, the only light coming from the windows overlooking the churning water. My phone is face-up on the bartop in front of me with Stellan Voss’s Instagram still open. I’ve had it open for the past twenty minutes. Maybe longer. I’ve lost track of time. I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here staring at this man’s face while the storm builds outside.

He posted three hours ago. Some bullshit about a new tasting menu. It’s a photo of a perfectly plated dish with edible flowers arranged just so. The caption is full of hashtags and mentions and that self-congratulatory tone that makes my teeth ache.

Forty-seven thousand likes. Forty-seven thousand people who think this man is a genius.

Forty-seven thousand people who have no idea what he did to Vivienne. And probably multiple other women throughout the years. How many others were there? How many young cooks did he break before her? How many after?

I pick up my phone, my thumb hovering over the message icon. I’ve done this four times in the past hour and more times than I can count over the past three days. I type out messages, read them back, and delete them before I can hit send.

The first one was long. It was extremely detailed and very specific. It listed exactly what he did and exactly what I thought of him for it.

The second one was shorter. More direct. I stated just the facts.

The third one was threats. Pure, unfiltered rage compressed into three sentences that would probably get me arrested.

The fourth one was a single line: I know what you did to Vivienne Lane, you fucking scumbag.

I deleted that one too.

My finger hovers over the keyboard now, ready to type a fifth attempt. But what would it accomplish? He’d block me. Or ignore me. Or worse — he’d respond with some lawyer-written statement about how he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, or how he wishes Vivienne well in her future endeavors and how it’s unfortunate she couldn’t handle the pressure of a professional kitchen.

And I’d lose it completely.

I set the phone down before I can type anything and press the heels of my hands against my eyes hard enough to see spots.

I’ve looked at flights. Sixteen times in the past three days. I know exactly which one I’d take — the early morning out of the regional airport, which connects through San Francisco to JFK, and lands by 3 p.m., giving me the whole afternoon to find him.

I’d find Stellan Voss and wrap my hands around his throat and make him understand exactly what he took from her.

What he took from both of us.

Five years.