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I wanted him to feel toward me what he felt toward Gwen.

But he never will. Because I’m a monster who violated his trust, who manipulated him into exposing himself.

The bump and roll of a suitcase in the hallway outside my door pulls me from my spiral, reminding me that Thanksgiving is in a few days and I’ll be headed home. Cameron will likely go home to Connecticut. I need to talk to him, see him before we leave.

I could try one more time and call him as myself, from my own number, the one he doesn’t know. I could tell him the truth, that I did it because I’ve been obsessed with him since Culloden, since that first moment I kissed him and felt something shift inside me that I couldn’t name or control.

I press the call button.

It rings once.

“You have reached⁠—”

Voicemail.

I try again.

Voicemail immediately.

His phone is off.

I can’t catch my breath. I can’t think. Can’t do anything except sit here as the weight of what I’ve done crushes me into nothing.

I’ve been tracking Cameron for two months, memorizing his schedule, his habits, and engineering encounters. Now what am I supposed to do?

Wait. Cameron will be at the dock in the morning. I could go there. I could wait for him. Give him space, watching from a distance to make sure he’s okay. And then, when he comes back to shore, I could talk to him. Face to face. No phones. No screens. No personas. Just me and him and the truth. I could tell him everything. He might not believe me, probably won’t, but I have to try.

The dock is quiet at five-thirty in the morning.

I’m hidden behind a pylon, far enough back that Cameron won’t see me when he arrives, but close enough that I can watch him.

The sky is starting to lighten, a pale gray bleeding into the darkness. The river looks like glass, still free of ice, but in the next few weeks, it will freeze over. I’ve been here for twenty minutes, my breath fogging in the cold air. I’m wearing my down jacket, with a red-and-black scarf wrapped around my neck.

Cameron is late. He’s never late. My chest seizes with irrational panic. What if he’s not coming? What if he’s so destroyed by what I did that he can’t even get out of bed? What if Liam is still there, keeping him company⁠—

Then I see him walking down the path toward the dock, his scull balanced on his shoulder. He’s wearing his usual rowing gear, but something’s different. His movements are mechanical.

He sets the scull down at the edge of the dock and kneels beside it, checking the riggers, the oarlocks, the foot stretchers. He moves with efficiency, but there’s no life in the routine. He looks exhausted, hollowed out.

He pushes the scull into the water and climbs in carefully, settling into the seat, sliding his feet into the shoes attached to the foot stretchers. He adjusts the straps. Grabs the oars and rows.

The scull glides across the water, smooth and fast. Cameron’s body moves in perfect rhythm, legs driving, back swinging, arms pulling. The oars slice through the water with barely a splash.

He rows backward, facing away from where he’s going, trusting his body to know the way.

I follow along the bank, keeping pace with him.

The river is busier now. Crew teams are launching their eights. Motorboats are heading out for early-morning fishing. Other single scullers dot the water.

Cameron rows toward the bridge, staying on the proper side of the river, following the rules.

I cross the bridge to get closer to him.

On the other side, I can finally see his face, and it destroys me. His eyes are fixed on some point in the distance, hard and unblinking. His mouth is a tight line. His nostrils flare with each breath. Every muscle in his body is taut, straining, pushing harder than necessary. He’s rowing with fury. Not the controlled power I’ve seen before. This is something else. Something desperate and violent and self-destructive. He’s trying to outrun what I did to him.

I watch him row past me, his face a mask of intensity and pain, and I want to call out to him. I want to tell him to slow down, to be careful, to⁠—

A small boat leaves the center of the river, too close to the rowing lanes. Its illegal wake hits Cameron’s scull. In an instant, the scull tips and flips completely. Cameron is gone. All I see is the bottom of the scull, white and gleaming in the early-morning light.