Bridget followed the dirt road back to the house. She pushed open the front door and walked straight across the living room to the cast-iron fireplace in the corner.
She pulled the two thick stacks of pink envelopes from her coat pocket. She didn't look at the words. She tossed them directly onto the glowing embers.
She grabbed the heavy iron poker. She stabbed at the charred wood, exposing the red-hot core. Flames immediately licked upward, catching the edges of the paper and turning the humiliation into black smoke.
The curtain leading to the kitchen was pushed aside. Corda walked out, carrying a plastic basin full of wet laundry. She stopped dead when she saw the fire.
Corda dropped the basin onto a chair. She rushed over to the fireplace, staring at the curling, burning letters. Her eyes filled with fresh tears.
Her voice trembled as she looked at Bridget, asking if it was really over. If she got them all.
Bridget set the iron poker down. She turned to face her mother. She looked at the deep wrinkles around Corda's eyes and gave a firm, single nod.
Bridget reached out and took Corda's rough hand. She led her to the worn sofa and pulled her down to sit. She decided to test the waters with the truth.
Bridget took a slow breath. She chose her words carefully. She told Corda that when she was under the water, something broke. She said she felt like a completely different person now.
She tried to hint that the old Bridget was dead and gone.
Corda's face twisted in agony. She gripped Bridget's hand with bone-crushing force.
Tears spilled down Corda's cheeks. She threw her arms around Bridget, pulling her into a tight, desperate hug. She sobbed, blaming herself for letting her daughter suffer so much trauma.
Bridget froze. Corda had completely misunderstood. The older woman thought the personality shift was a psychological defense mechanism-a trauma response to almost dying.
Bridget rested her chin on Corda's shoulder. The smell of cheap lye soap filled her nose. The weight of the mother's love was heavy and real.
Her analytical brain ran the simulation. Telling a poor, uneducated woman in 1978 that a soul from the future possessed her daughter would result in a trip to the psychiatric ward.
Bridget closed her eyes. She silently said her final goodbye to the girl who drowned. She accepted the misunderstanding. It was the perfect cover.
She wrapped her arms around Corda. She patted her back gently, whispering that she was fine, and that she would protect this family from now on.
Corda sniffled and pulled back. She wiped her face with her apron. She forced a smile and told Bridget to go sit on the porch and get some fresh air while she started dinner.
Bridget stood up. She walked to the front door and pushed the screen open.
The sun was setting, painting the sky a bruised orange. The cool evening breeze felt incredible against her flushed skin.
She leaned her forearms against the wooden railing. She closed her eyes, letting the quiet of the country wash over her.
The rhythmic crunch of heavy boots on gravel broke the silence.
Bridget opened her eyes. She looked toward the road. A tall man wearing a dark canvas jacket was walking past the house.
His dark hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were dark, deep, and completely closed off to the world.
The fragmented memories snapped together. This was the volunteer who pulled her out of the lake. Drake Potts.
Drake felt the weight of her stare. He stopped walking. He turned his head and looked directly at her standing on the porch.
Their eyes locked. Bridget's heart gave a violent, uncontrollable thump against her ribs.
This wasn't the original Bridget's pathetic pining. This was a purely biological reaction-a mature woman's primal appreciation for a physically dominant, exceptionally built male.
Bridget straightened her spine. She didn't look away. She stared right back at him, her gaze bold, appreciative, and slightly predatory.
Drake saw the intensity in her eyes. A muscle ticked in his jaw. A flash of deep annoyance crossed his face.
He broke eye contact immediately. He grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulled it up against the wind, and quickened his pace, fully intending to pretend she didn't exist.
