Page 91 of Neap & Spring

What happened in that kitchen?

What happened that was so bad it made her stop cooking? What made her disappear on everyone who cared about her? What made her run from the thing she loved most in the world?

I stand there on the patio, staring at the Instagram profile of a celebrity chef I’ve never met, and I feel something cold and furious settle in my chest. It’s dark and violent and completely unfamiliar.

Whatever happened to Vivienne, he did it.

Stellan Voss did it.

And I’m going to find out what.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Vivienne

Idon’t remember driving here.

I’ve been sitting in my car outside this house for seven minutes.

I know it’s seven minutes because I’ve checked my phone four times.

6:23.

6:25.

6:27.

6:30.

The dinner invitation was for 6:00.

I’m late. But I can’t seem to make myself open the car door.

I’m sitting here, staring at string lights strung along a porch railing swaying in the evening wind, and I genuinely cannot account for most of the day.

The house is smaller than I pictured. It looks like it was built by someone who cared more about being inside it than about how it looked from the outside. Weathered gray shingles with a front porch that sags slightly in the middle. Fishing nets hanging on the side wall that tangle lightly in the breeze. A truck in the driveway I recognize as Callum’s. Through the front windows I can see warm light and movement, people passing by and shadows on the walls.

It’s not fancy. It looks like a patchwork of additions built as needed. The kind of house that grew with the family instead of being planned. But it looks well-loved.

This is where Callum grew up.

What am I doing here?

I look down at the glass dish in my passenger seat. The dip sits there, perfectly golden-brown on top, the cheese melted just right. Garlic and herbs are visible through the glass, and underneath them, the pale pink of crab meat.

It looks pretty good.

Professional, even.

It took me six tries.

On the first attempt, I couldn’t even turn on the stove. I just stood there in the cottage kitchen, hand hovering over the knob, watching my fingers tremble in the air. My breath came shorter and shorter until I had to sit down on the floor with my head between my knees

The second attempt, I got as far as opening the cream cheese package before my hands started shaking so badly I dropped it. It hit the counter, and I flinched at the sound, just a soft splat, but it might as well have been a plate shattering.

On the third attempt, I actually got ingredients into a bowl before I had to step outside and pace the length of the cottage. Back and forth, back and forth, gulping down salt air and reminding myself how to breathe. Reminding myself this was just cooking and it was just a simple recipe that used to be so easy.

By the fourth attempt, I was crying and stirring at the same time, tears dripping into the bowl and mixing with the cream cheese. The wooden spoon clicked against the sides in a rhythm that sounded too much like a knife on a cutting board.