𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒, 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬

FORTY-SEVEN| a good sailor goes down with his ship

Isla was growing distant. Eden had been acting out. And Tom? He was left in the middle, unsure of what was happening—on why Isla had been spending so much time at the Cameron's recently, or why she was disappearing off to her car to answer phone calls from Ward. He didn't know why Eden hadn't returned home after Charleston, or why she'd called Isla out at John B.'s hearing the other day.

He doesn't know. But he wants too—needs too.

Another thing he knows about Eden? She can't hold herself back when it came to the truth. For the past week, she'd gone around, claiming John B. was alive and Tom, listening to his wife, brushed it off—she needed more therapy, more help getting over the death of her best friend.

But yesterday, she'd started calling out Isla herself-saying that she was too afraid to speak up, that Ward had her in some hold, that she was helping cover up a murder with the Cameron man. Tom saw the way his wife has tensed at the comments, as if she was afraid someone would believe Eden.

To say it made Tom more suspicious was an understatement.

Tom had always trusted his wife but that was breaking, and he needed to know the truth of what was really happening. What had been happening behind his back for who knows how long?

Currently, the couple were lounging in the kitchen. Isla was sitting at the island, checking her phone every few minutes, picking at her nails in the few seconds that she wasn't checking her device—she was anxious.

Tom himself was leaning against the counter, watching his wife's actions. He could tell something was happening by the way she picked her nail polish—she only did that when she was nervous.

So, he simply asked.

"Are you okay?" Tom watches as his wife whips her head in his direction. Her makeup is still perfectly done, but her hair is down—she always had her hair up, in a tight ponytail or braid. "You've just been checking your phone unusually often. If you're worried about Eden, I can call—"

"Everything's fine, Tom." Isla purses her lips, pushing her phone away from her figure to draw suspicion away. She tries her best to smile at her husband, but he can see through it—the way her lips slightly tremble. "Just waiting on Ward to text me back."

"You two have been spending an awful amount of time together these past few weeks." Tom decides he's going to do it now—he's going to ask what's happening. He doesn't know what answer he'll get, let alone if Isla will budge, but he has to try.

Isla dismisses, "He's been stressed with all these accusations about Peterkin and his friend Gavin went missing the other day. I've been trying to help him out."

"Isla, you know, you can tell me if something's happening." the Bexley man begins, watching as Isla frowns in her chair. He cared for his wife, whether or not she was acting suspicious. "You don't have to keep it to yourself or between you and Ward. You can—you can tell me."

"Is this about what Eden said yesterday?" Isla looks at her husband, almost offended that he was bringing the topic back up—offended that he was believing what his daughter had to say. "Because, she's been a total wreck since that Routledge kid got back on the island. He was in jail because of what he did and she was upset that he was getting the consequences—"

"But is she, Isla? Is she really just upset?" Tom exclaims, looking at his wife. He tried to see through her but the woman didn't meet his gaze—almost as if she were ashamed. "And what do you mean he was in jail? John B. has the death sentence, he's in there for good."

"He was dropped of all charges this morning." Isla firmly states, pursing her lips like the news sat unsurely within her stomach.

"Dropped of all charges? That's not possible. He was found guilty of killing the sheriff, they can't just drop—" Tom stops himself from talking, a sudden realization setting in his mind. They wouldn't drop the charges unless he'd been wrongly convicted; just like Eden had been saying yesterday. "John B. is innocent, isn't he?"