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### Episode 78: The Salt and the Scar
The damp night air on the Cannon Beach deck was heavy with the scent of pine and salt. The argument had finally fractured into a desperate, grounding heat. Andrew’s hands were on her, his fingers finding the familiar curves of her breasts, a silent claim of "us" against the world. Sarah’s eyes were closed, her breath hitching—until the sound came.
*Thunk. Thunk-thunk-thunk.*
Sarah’s eyes snapped open. There, behind the sliding glass door, Alice was propped up in her baby walker, her small hands pounding rhythmically against the pane. She had wheeled herself right to the edge of their world, watching them through the glass with wide, curious eyes.
The spell shattered. Sarah scrambled back, her face flushing in the dark. "Oh... no," she hissed, her fingers fumbling as she grabbed Andrew’s discarded T-shirt and yanked it over her head. She pulled up her sweats, her heart still racing a mile a minute. They moved inside quickly, the sudden warmth of the house feeling stifling as they got the baby settled.
Once the nursery door was closed, the silence in the living room wasn't peaceful—it was a pressure cooker. Sarah turned on him, her voice a low, vibrating blade.
"How do we go from here, Andrew? Really? You talk about 'us,' but 'us' is built on a mountain of bodies. The killings, the secrets... you say it was to keep us safe, but all I feel is the blood on the floor. Can this even be saved? Or are we just pretending until the next ghost shows up to tear us apart?"
She was pacing now, her anger flaring hot. "I’ve spent weeks drowning in what you did, in the lies you told about Allyson, and the violence you brought into this house!"
Andrew sat on the edge of the sofa, his face ghostly pale, watching her rage. When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't loud—it was hollow. "You've spent weeks counting my sins, Sarah. You've looked at the blood. You've looked at the lies." He paused, his voice cracking. "But in all this time... you haven't even asked about my pain."
The words hit like a physical blow. Sarah stopped mid-stride, her anger flickering. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the way he was gripping his right thigh, his knuckles white.
"Your pain?" she asked, her voice dropping the edge.
"My pain," he whispered. "You haven't asked once."
The anger drained out of her, replaced by a sudden, cold realization. She took a step toward him. "Tell me, Andrew. Tell me about the pain."
"It’s constant, babe," he said, his breath hitching. "The stroke leg was already a struggle, but that knife... it went so deep. It destroyed the little bit of strength I had left. I’m in agony every time I move. My body feels like it’s being put through a washing machine of broken glass."
He looked up at her, his eyes raw. "When I fell in that shower... I was at my absolute lowest. And you just looked at me... and you went away."
Sarah felt the air leave the room. The guilt was a heavy weight in her chest. "Stay there," she commanded softly, her voice thick. "Don't you dare move, Andrew Miller."
She returned with a basin of warm water and the kit. "Shirt off," she said. As he pulled it over his head, she finally saw the cost. The deep, puckered slice by his ribcage, the jagged marks across his neck, the brutal slashes along both arms, and the massive, ink-dark bruising.
"I’m sorry it took me this long to look," she murmured, her touch lighter than a feather as she cleaned the wounds. "I was so busy looking for lies that I missed the truth written right on your skin."
Andrew leaned forward. "You have to let the Allyson thing go, babe. I chose you. Cindy and Chloe... they killed her. Isn't it enough that she's dead? We had already agreed to put our marriage back together before I even found her in that cave. I was going to give her money to go start over... but it was always going to be 'us.' Yet you still keep bringing her up."
"It's just us now, babe," Sarah whispered, tucking the quilt up to his chest. "No more ghosts. Just relax. I've got this."
She headed out into the mist, the drive to the Chinese place a blur. After placing the order, she crossed to the market. *Rattle-ting* went the bell. She found the four **Charleston Chews** and her Nerds, searching the empty chip aisle when she rounded the corner.
Caleb.
"Hello, Caleb. Have you been in?" she asked, the tension immediate.
"How you doing, Sarah?" he replied, his voice steady. He stepped closer and grabbed her hand. "You know, I'm always here for you, Sarah. I kind of thought the world of you the first time. And you're so funny and... well, I shouldn't say more."
He started to let go, but Sarah gripped his hand back. "I really appreciate you caring about me, Caleb." They shared a look—a confusing, heavy energy—before he finally left.
Sarah paid and grabbed the steaming bags of food, but as she drove, the car became a cage. She pulled off to the side of the road, the panic attack hitting like a physical blow. She began to hyperventilate, the energy of Caleb's touch clashing with the image of Andrew’s broken body.
"What am I doing?" she screamed into the quiet car. "Why does everything have to be so hard?"
She sobbed until her face was raw, then forced a deep, shuddering breath. She wiped her eyes, put the car in gear, and headed home to her husband.
