If he caught her in the midst of a life crisis, he wouldn’t stop until he’d pried the story out of her. Then, he’d do what he’d always done, ride to her rescue.

And this time, it could get him killed.

There was no rescue. No hero to swoop in and clean up her mess. She’d gone too far. And the consequences due were hers alone.

“I’ll end her. And you’ll know it was because of you.”

The threat echoed in her head, and she did her best to breathe through it.

She just needed to push through. What she wouldn’t give for a sweaty sun salutation or a marathon painting session to get her head right again. She needed to find a way through the fear, back to the Remi who wouldn’t just roll over and let a monster win.

The tightness in her chest demanded her attention.

She drew in a breath, holding it when she’d hit capacity, then exhaled with control. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The familiar scents of her oil paints, the brush cleaner, the bread she’d baked that morning grounded her, blocked out the memories of the metallic smell of blood and smoke.

She wasn’t going to sit here, wallowing in the what-ifs, and give herself a goddamn asthma attack.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

She sat still, breathing deeply until the tightness in her chest loosened, until her yoga instructor back in Chicago would be proud.

Crisis averted, for now. She decided to unearth her inhaler and keep it handy just in case. But just as she started to work up the energy to get her ass off the chair and start digging through her hastily packed luggage, a familiar jingle on the street caught her attention.

Remi threw on her coat and slippers and jogged out to the gate just in time to see Mickey Mulvaney and his trusty steeds Murphy and Rupert clip-clop into view, the dray wagon stacked with boxes and bins.

“Mickey Mulvaney, haven’t you retired yet?” she teased. The man had been running package and freight deliveries over the island for practically her entire life.

The man beamed down at her from his perch behind the Clydesdales. Brown eyes peered out at her between a wool cap and thick scarf. “Well, if it isn’t little Remi Ford!” he crowed. “I’ll retire when I’m dead. How’s big city living?”

“Not as good as island life. Packages show up there in these things called trucks.”

“Those mainlanders don’t know what they’re missing.” He cackled as he hopped into the flatbed to paw through envelopes and packages. Mickey and Murphy were fixtures on the island, running mail and deliveries all year long.

“Got something here for you,” he said, triumphantly snatching a thick envelope from one of his satchels.

“For me?” That was a surprise. The only people who knew she was here were the ones on Mackinac. And for them, it would be easier to just knock on the door rather than send a package.