Chapter 8

Noordhoek Beach cottage.

Fiona pulled back her head slightly and looked at me from just inches away. Her cheeks were flushed, her red-rimmed eyes glassy with unshed tears, and her lips parted as if caught between words and silence. The way she looked at me — raw, vulnerable — hit me square in the chest.

Her nightshirt had ridden up, exposing her slender thighs, the curve of her legs catching the dim glow of the bedside lamp. But I forced myself to keep my gaze steady, locked on her eyes. Four inches away, and yet at that moment, she felt both heartbreakingly close and impossibly distant.

Her bottom lip quivered, and another tear welled up before spilling over, tracing a glistening path down her cheek.

“It was horrible,” she whispered, her voice uneven. “I dreamed he was beating me with that whip ... I felt every lash...”

The words cut through me like a blade. My jaw tightened, but I kept my voice gentle. “It’s over, Fee,” I murmured. “It was just a dream. An illusion. Dreams are nothing but fog in the night—nothing real.”

She hesitated, then swallowed hard. “But what if...”

“No,” I said softly but firmly. “What if is just as empty. There’s no substance in what if. It’s a mirage, a trick of the mind that tries to fetch the baboon behind the mountain.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, but I pressed on, offering her the words like a lifeline. “Leave the baboon there, Fee. If you ever get to that mountain, deal with it then. But most of the time, you’ll find the baboon was never there in the first place.”

A faint, wobbly smile ghosted across her lips. “Is that the philosopher speaking?”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But it’s also just common sense. I’ve seen how you tremble when he walks through your mind. He left scars, deep ones, and I won’t pretend they don’t exist. But Fee, he’s just a ghost story now. A nightmare that tricks you into believing he’s still here. He’s not. He’s just smoke, and mirrors, and shadows.”

She stared at me for a long time, saying nothing, just scanning my face as if trying to memorize every detail. Her grip on me never loosened. I let her take her time.

Finally, I exhaled and gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Come on, let me make you some warm milk with a little nutmeg.”

She blinked, as if surfacing from deep water. “Is that some old-timey home remedy passed down through generations?”

I smirked. “A magic potion my mum used to give us when we couldn’t sleep.”

Her lips twitched. “Then let’s go work your potion on me...” She paused, then groaned, pressing her palm against her forehead. “OOo! That did not come out right...”

I chuckled. “You meant, ‘let’s go, so you can make me my sleep potion’?”

She sighed dramatically. “Now you’re finishing my sentences for me.”

She clung to me for just a moment longer, then finally with a deep breath, wiggled out of our tangled limbs. I sighed and pushed myself up from where I’d been sitting sideways on her bed. Fiona, now back in motion, pulled on her nightgown and slippers, effectively hiding those long, slender legs. A shame, really. But I said nothing.

Together we went to the little kitchen. I took two glasses out of the cabinet and filled them with milk. Using the microwave, I nuked the milk till just drinkable warm. I took a quarter teaspoon of powdered nutmeg and stirred it into her glass of milk and handed her a glass.

“Here. Drink this. It’ll calm your nerves and help you sleep.”

Fiona took the glass, sniffed it, then grinned up at me. “Hmm ... doesn’t smell too bad. You might be trying to poison me, though, so I should probably be careful.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why would I poison you?”

She took a sip, then glanced at me mischievously. “One never knows. Did you know that ingesting two tablespoons of ground nutmeg, one to three whole nutmegs, or over five grams of powdered nutmeg can cause hallucinations, nausea, and severe emesis?”

I stared at her. “No, Doctor, I did not know that.”

She giggled. “I’m a Ph.D., not an M.D.”

“Well, you sound confident, so I believe you. But now I need to ask ... what the hell is ‘emesis’?”

She smirked, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Ah, the master of words has a chink in his armour. Emesis is the medical term for vomiting or throwing up.”

I blinked down at my glass. “Huh.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Did I just ruin your appetite for warm milk?”

I shook my head. “No, I was just wondering how much milk I’d have to drink before it becomes toxic.”

She groaned. “Don’t be a doofus! Milk can’t become toxic!”

“Tell that to a lactose-intolerant person.”

She huffed. “Do you always have to get the last word in?”

“Yes, dear.”

We drank in comfortable silence. Once Fiona finished hers, I rinsed both glasses and set them on the drying rack. When she let out a long yawn, I knew the nutmeg had done its job.

“Come,” I murmured, taking her hand. “Let’s go try again.”

She didn’t resist as I led her back to her room. But when we reached the doorway, she hesitated. Her expression shifted, fear flickering behind her eyes, as if the darkness itself carried memories.

Fiona hesitated at the threshold of her bedroom, her hand tightening around mine. Her earlier exhaustion and the warmth from the milk seemed to fade in an instant, replaced by something else — something older, deeper, and more insidious. A shadow flickered in her eyes, an unspoken fear wrapping itself around her like an invisible chain. She got an afraid-of-the-dark look in her eyes.

“Fee?” I murmured, watching her face carefully. Her gaze darted past me, lingering on the darkness beyond her door.

“I...” she started, but the words trailed off. I could see it — the weight she carried, the wounds that hadn’t yet closed. The past still had its claws in her, still whispered in the silence of the night.

Without another word, I gently tugged her away from that doorway and led her toward my room. She didn’t resist. When we stepped inside, I turned down the sheets with one hand before scooping her up, lifting her as easily as if she weighed nothing. A small gasp escaped her, half-surprised, half-delighted, but she didn’t fight me.

I laid her down, adjusting the blankets over her, tucking her in like something fragile, something precious. When I pulled back, her wide, saucer-like eyes gazed up at me, filled with something I couldn’t quite name — trust, maybe. Uncertainty. Something in between.

“Roy?” Her voice was soft, unsure.

“You sleep here, next to me,” I said firmly. “And I mean sleep. No other stuff. Just solid sleep. I’ll keep the monsters away...”

There was a pause, then —

“Roy?”

“Yes, Fee?”

She hesitated for just a beat longer before breaking into a small, tired giggle. “Can I take my robe and slippers off first?”

The way she said it — innocent, teasing, the faintest flicker of her usual mischief peeking through — made my brain short-circuit for a second.

“Sorry —” I cleared my throat, shifting awkwardly. “Let me help you.”

A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “ONLY my robe and slippers...”

“Okay ... that’s ... that’s what I meant...” I stammered.

She giggled again, softer this time, and I knew the tension had cracked just a little.

She got up and removed her night gown and slippers. Her night shirt again revealing some gorgeous legs on dainty feet.

A moment later, she shifted in under the blanket, sighing as she settled in. I caught the way her body relaxed, the weight of exhaustion finally sinking into her limbs. Her eyes fluttered, heavy-lidded but still watching me.

“Better?” I asked.

She nodded sleepily. “Mmm...”

I climbed in beside her, careful not to crowd, but close enough to be there if she needed me. Close enough to let her know she wasn’t alone.

A soft exhaling of breath. A small movement as she curled just slightly toward me.

“Goodnight, Fee,” I said as I switched off the bedside lamp.

A whisper, just before sleep claimed her.

“Goodnight, Roy...”

Sleep took its sweet time coming to me. My mind was restless, caught in a loop of replaying the day’s events, analysing every detail, every conversation, every possible angle that might lead me to a solution for the Anderson problem. But no matter how many times I turned it over, I found nothing but dead ends.

The unfamiliar warmth beside me didn’t make things easier. I was never married, but I’d had a girlfriend once, many years ago. Long enough that I’d grown used to sleeping alone, yet not so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone close. Still, having Fiona curled up next to me, breathing softly in the stillness of the room, was unsettling in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

At least the warm milk and nutmeg had done the trick for her. At some point, her slow, steady breathing told me she had drifted off into a peaceful sleep, her body relaxed, her presence quiet but certain.

For a long while, I stared at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic crashing of the waves beyond the cottage walls. The wind had died down to a mere whisper, barely stirring the air, a stark contrast to the howling gales that had battered the Cape before my arrival. Shadows danced faintly on the curtains, cast by the pale light of the moon and the occasional flicker of the security lamp outside.

Eventually, fatigue must have overtaken me because the next thing I knew, my eyes were opening to the grey light of dawn filtering through the gap in the curtains. It was a gentle sort of morning — the kind that promised a clear sky and sunshine, a reprieve from the storms that had passed.

I shifted slightly, intending to stretch — but found that I couldn’t move.

Fiona had turned in the night, her body pressed against mine. One arm was draped lazily over my chest, her fingers resting just above my ribs, and a leg hooked over mine, warm and unmoving. Her hair, faintly scented with whatever floral shampoo she used, tickled my chin.

Carefully, I turned my head.

Ice-blue eyes met mine from mere inches away.

She was already awake, watching me with a quiet amusement that sent a flicker of something I wasn’t ready to name through my chest.

“Morning, Roy,” she whispered, her voice still husky from sleep. “I wondered when you’d wake up.”

“Morning, Fee.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “I trust you slept well?”

“Like a log,” she murmured, stretching slightly against me. “That warm milk, and you’re cradling me in your arms, that did the trick.”

I hadn’t even realized I had been holding her. But now that she mentioned it, the weight of her against me, the way her body fit so naturally beside mine, felt oddly ... normal. Comfortable, even.

I cleared my throat, pushing the thought aside.

“I’m glad you got some rest,” I said, shifting beneath the tangle of limbs. “But now, coffee.”

Her lips quirked into a sleepy smile. “Oh yeah. But I dibs the bathroom first.”

She rolled away, stretching her arms over her head before swinging her legs off the bed. The gown she’d dropped on the chair the night before, swayed as she slipped on her slippers and padded off toward the bathroom, leaving a faint trace of warmth where she’d been.

I lay there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, letting out a slow breath.

Then, with a grin, I stretched and rolled out of bed, shaking my head.

What a night.

Half an hour later, I had my morning routine done and dusted. The cool splash of water on my face had shaken off the last remnants of sleep. And now, dressed in my usual knocking around denim shirt and cargo pants, I was pottering around the kitchen, coaxing the coffee maker into producing something halfway decent. The rich aroma of dark roast filled the small cottage, curling through the air like an invitation.

I had just poured the first cup when Fiona strolled in.

Her blond hair was loose over her shoulders, waves of gold catching the morning light. She wore the same outfit I’d seen her in when we dined at Mariner’s Wharf: a fitted navy blue and white blouse with a matching linen and lace long skirt that made her look effortlessly elegant. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought she’d stepped straight out of a storybook.

“I smelled the coffee all the way from the bedroom,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

“Not exactly a great feat, considering this cottage is only five rooms big,” I pointed out, handing her a mug.

She took it, cupping it between her hands as she breathed in the scent. “Still, it had me hooked.”

I leaned against the counter, taking a sip of my own coffee. “Are you starving, or can we hold off on breakfast for a bit?”

She arched a brow. “I can hold. Why? Do you have something in mind?”

“Ever been to the Harbour House restaurant at Kalk Bay?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Remember, I was only here for a short visit.”

I grinned. “Then let me show you the way Capetonians dine — right on the edge of the sea.”

She took a slow sip, eyes narrowing slightly. “Alright ... what’s on the menu?”

I set my mug down and crossed my arms. “How does freshly grilled Yellowtail sound? Or Kingklip, cob, or hake, paired with braised red and yellow peppers, baby marrow, tomato — all cooked together with prawns, basil aioli, and a rich tomato-based sauce?”

She closed her eyes for a second, groaning in appreciation. “That sounds incredible. But isn’t Kingklip on the endangered list?”

“It’s on the yellow list,” I admitted.

“Hmm ... okay, I’ll stick with Yellowtail.”

“Good choice.” I pushed off the counter and levelled a smirk at her. “And for dessert, we’ll top it off with a slice of cheesecake covered in English toffee ice cream, mini chocolate whispers, and vanilla crumble.”

She blinked, then shot me a suspicious look over the rim of her mug. “Roy ... are you trying to fatten me up for Christmas?”

I chuckled. “No, just making sure you get the full experience of Cape Town’s culinary scene.”

“Well, in that case...” She set her coffee down and stretched. “Let’s go. It’s past eight in the morning, and now I’m officially starving.”

“Right,” I said, draining the last of my coffee. “Race you to the car.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” she shot back, but she was already moving, a blur of blond hair and laughter as she darted toward the front door.

I grinned, shook my head, and took off after her.

Harbour House restaurant sat perched at the very edge of the sea, its large glass windows offering an uninterrupted view of the endless blue stretching to the horizon. As I guided Fiona through the softly lit dining area, the scent of salt and grilled seafood mingled in the air, blending with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery against fine china.

Sunlight was streaming in through the big glass windows. Armour glass since after the last severe storm that sent the waves crashing through the windows and into the restaurant, they installed 80-millimetre-thick armour glass.

The maître d’ led us to a table by the window, right above the jagged brown and black rocks, worn smooth in places by the relentless tide. Today though, the ocean was calm, its deep blue surface rolling gently against the rocks below, swirling white foam curling into the crevices before retreating again.