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PROLOGUE
Scarlet
I saved a life once. A single gunshot wound to the abdomen, and I managed to keep her alive long enough for the paramedics to arrive and take her to the hospital. I don’t remember it fully, only the bitter chaos that followed.
And it still sometimes follows me.
On days like today, when the deceiving January sun settles beyond the meadow and threatens to send the darkest of nights, it reminds me. Because on the very day I saved my firstpatient, I lost another. That life belonged to Joey Wilson, and not a day goes by where I don’t think about the dull thump of his heart before everything stopped, the hopefulness that one beat brought me only to slip away in the next second.
I carry the dead flowers I’ve collected through the house, pausing when I reach the sitting room. I peer over at the wingback armchair positioned in the same spot it’s gathered dust in for over thirty years, a small smile gently banishing the fine lines gathered between my brows.
“You’ve been out there for hours, Scarlet. Aren’t you cold?”
My smile grows, and I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders. I continue through the silent house and into the kitchen.
The flowers I pick from the gardens have no hope of survival, and I think I like that. If we don’t have expectations of a long life, we might just learn to live in the light, to be a little wilder. Or at least that’s what I hope.
I place the flowers onto the worktop in the pantry and remove the excess leaves from the stems. I organise them into smaller arrangements, not considering the colours or aesthetics I’m creating. They always seem to turn out better this way.
Cutting three pieces of string, I take my time to tie the flowers carefully and hang them upside down on the hooks, replacing the ones from last month.
My eyes scan the shelves for an empty mason jar to fill.
“Dammit,” I tut, looking up at the top shelf where the stacked trays sit haphazardly. “Mason Lowell, I’ll kick your ass if you’ve been in here.”
I go in search of the stepladder despite the fact that I only have an hour before everyone will be home for the day, and I haven’t started dinner.
My brother and I share our childhood home. It’s big enough to house a small army, so we don’t have any issues sharing it… unless he moves my things. Thankfully, he works in the city along with his wife, who owns her own dance studio, so I get most of my days off from the hospital to myself, which is how I like it.
I set up the ladder beside the cabinets and climb four steps, reaching for the tray. My hand curls around the cool glass of a single jar. “Gotcha!”
But then the faint but familiar sound of a motorbike engine drifts through the house, and my smile drops.
I pause for a second, slightly turning my head, listening to be sure.
One split second.
One single heartbeat.
Everything slows.
And then the tray topples from the ledge. The jars clatter and smash against the black flagstone as the flowers fall from the counter, my uncoordinated dismount from the stepladder causing my feet to crush them, the glass crunching under my thick-rimmed boots. Still, they carry me—even as they shake, my thighs trembling as the roaring engine tears down the lane.
Closer and closer.
It can’t be.
I’m on the terrace with no recollection of the seconds that passed moments before.
My heart pounds, and it’s almost painful.
No—it is painful.
I place my hand on my chest, the tips of my fingers dragging across my skin as I apply pressure.
“When the sun sets, and you start to forget me, remember every moment you fell in love with me in this meadow. Please, baby.”
My mouth parts, the memory as vivid as the day he left London.
