I can’t tell what’s right or wrong anymore, and I have no idea how to push through this uncertainty.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jared
Rain hammers down on me, and I tuck my chin deeper into the collar of my jacket as I squint through the downpour toward the distant dock. The pathway has turned to soup beneath my boots, mud sucking at each step like it wants to keep me here on the island.
Fitting, since I have nowhere better to go. Emily made that clear enough with her stiff shoulders and the way she manufactured paperwork to avoid riding home with me.
Such a transparent lie. We both knew there was no paperwork. Nothing that couldn’t wait. She’d just rather hang out in this storm than spend twenty minutes sitting beside me.
My boot catches on a root hidden beneath themud, and I stumble, throwing out a hand to catch myself against the rough bark of a pine. The scent of sap and wet wood fills my nose as I push upright, wiping my muddy palm on my equally muddy jeans.
“Get it together,” I mutter to no one.
The construction site disappears behind me as the path curves through a stand of dripping pines. The growl of an engine cuts through the storm.
I lift my head.
Through the sheets of rain, I make out the sight of the water taxi pulling away from the mooring, its running lights glowing. Figures move beneath the passenger roof as crew members huddle close to stay warm.
“Shit.”
I break into a jog, boots slipping in the mud as I half-slide down the incline. The taxi’s wake spreads out in slow ripples, white foam bright on top of the dark water. I wave an arm, but the storm swallows up my shout.
The boat keeps moving toward the channel, its lights growing smaller, dimmer, until they’re little more than glints in the rain.
I gasp for breath as I stop at the end of the dock, water sheeting off my jacket. The boards creak under my weight, rain splattering through thegaps. For a long moment, I stand there, watching the glow of the taxi fade into the gray distance.
Too slow again.
It’s not the boat I’m angry at, not really. It’s the distance I can’t close, no matter how hard I try, the words I can’t say right, the walls she won’t lower. I drag a hand over my face, the rain washing away nothing.
Across the water, thunder rolls, shaking through the planks beneath my boots before the sound fades into the steady beat of rain.
With nowhere else to go, I sink onto the dock, elbows braced on my knees, and stare out at the churning gray surface. The taxi won’t be back for at least an hour, or more if the lightning keeps Kyle sheltering at Pinecrest.
It doesn’t really matter how long I have to wait. The thought of my own return to Emily’s cottage sits heavy in my stomach.
To distract myself, I pull my phone from my inner pocket, where it’s stayed dry. Habit more than interest has me open the community feed, scrolling through photos of flooded streets and storm warnings. A neighbor’s basement has filled with six inches of water. The bakery is closing early due to power concerns. The road to Pinecrest has washed out near the old bridge.
My thumb pauses mid-scroll as a headline catches my eye, black text stark against a white background: “Anatomy of a Digital Lynch Mob: How Fifteen Seconds of Edited Video Destroyed an Innocent Man’s Reputation” by Grady Finch.
My heart stutters. Rain splatters on the screen, blurring the words until I wipe them away with my thumb. The article sits at the top of the feed, already gathering comments below its stark headline.
I tap it open, squinting past the raindrops on the glass, and the first lines punch the air from my lungs.
“When Jared Masterson moved to Pinecrest to start a new life, he never expected to become the subject of a modern witch hunt. Yet one edited video later, he found himself labeled a predator, his reputation in tatters. This is the story of how a community’s rush to judgment destroyed an innocent man’s life, and why we should all be concerned about the power of social media to bypass due process.”
My throat closes. I read it twice, then a third time, struggling to wrap my head around someone taking my side in the court of public opinion.
I scroll further, hunching my body over the phone to shield it from the worst of the rain.Grady’s writing is clear and concise, laying out the timeline of events without sensationalism.
It hits me then how different this feels from the statement the Misty Pines lawyer released last week.
That one was full of stiff phrases and legal qualifiers, the kind of thing no one reads unless they’re bored or angry. It slid across the feed without making a ripple, buried under the hashtags calling me a predator.
Still, I’d been grateful the Wright Pack tried. They didn’t owe me anything, and they’d stepped up anyway. But legal jargon couldn’t compete with outrage.