Chapter 10: Savannah Secrets
The low country unfolded before Amber like a secret the earth had been keeping. Spanish moss hung from the live oaks in gray-green veils, swaying in the humid breeze that pushed through the open windows of her Honda. Golden had fallen asleep somewhere around the Georgia border, her little chin tucked against the stuffed rabbit, her breath soft and even in the backseat.
Amber had been driving for four hours.
She'd packed in a haze—enough clothes for a week, Golden's favorite snacks, the envelope with the deed tucked into the glove compartment. She'd told Keisha she needed to see the house, needed to know what Kash had left behind, needed to stand in the space he'd built for them before she could decide what to do with it.
Keisha had looked at her for a long moment. Then she'd said, Call me when you get there.
Amber had promised she would.
Now she was here. Following the GPS down a winding two-lane road, the marsh spreading out on either side like a green-gold ocean. The house appeared at the end of a long gravel drive—a cottage on stilts, its wraparound porch draped in moss, its windows dark.
She killed the engine. Sat there for a minute, just breathing.
Golden stirred in the backseat. Mama?
We're here, baby.
Where's here?
Amber turned around. Looked at her daughter—pigtails askew, cheeks flushed from sleep, those hazel eyes blinking in the late afternoon light.
This was your daddy's house, she said. He left it for us.
Golden frowned. Daddy's house?
Yeah.
Can I see?
Amber smiled. That's why we came.
---
The key was exactly where the lawyer's letter had said it would be—under a ceramic frog by the front door, dusty with pollen and spiderwebs. Amber picked it up, wiped it on her jeans, and slid it into the lock.
The door swung open.
The first thing she noticed was the smell. Cologne—something expensive and woody, the kind Kash used to wear on date nights. Beneath that, roses. Fresh-cut roses, their petals still dewy, sitting in a crystal vase on the kitchen counter.
Amber stopped in the doorway.
The flowers were fresh.
Someone had been here.
She turned to Golden, who was peering around her leg at the dim interior. Stay close to Mama, okay?
Golden nodded, her grip tightening on the hem of Amber's shirt.
They stepped inside together.
The house was clean. Not just tidy—clean. The hardwood floors gleamed. The windows were streak-free. The furniture was dusted, the cushions fluffed, the rugs vacuumed. It looked like someone had been maintaining it, week after week, month after month, waiting for someone to arrive.
Waiting for her.
Amber walked through the living room in a daze. The furniture was modern but warm—a deep leather couch, a coffee table made of reclaimed wood, shelves lined with books. She ran her fingers along the spines. Ellison. Baldwin. Morrison. Hurston. All of Kash's favorites, the ones he used to quote when he was trying to impress her.
She smiled. He'd never been subtle.
Golden tugged at her hand. Mama, look.
She was pointing at the far wall. A painting hung there—a landscape of the marsh at sunset, all gold and purple and green. Amber recognized it immediately. She'd seen it in a gallery in Charlotte years ago, had stood in front of it for twenty minutes while Kash waited impatiently by the door.
I love this, she'd said.
It's just a painting, he'd replied.
But he'd bought it. He'd bought it and hung it here, in this house, in the life he'd planned for them.
Amber's throat tightened.
She lifted Golden onto her hip and carried her down the hallway. Past the bathroom. Past the bedroom with the queen-sized bed and the windows facing the water. Past the second bedroom—Golden's room, she realized, with its pale yellow walls and its small white bed and its shelf full of stuffed animals.
She stopped.
Golden's room was stocked. The bed was made. There were books on the shelf, toys in a wicker basket, a mobile hanging from the ceiling—tiny wooden fish, spinning slowly in the breeze from the open window.
Kash had prepared this.
He'd prepared all of it.
Mama, is this my room?
Amber blinked. Yeah, baby. This is your room.
Golden squirmed to get down. Amber set her on the floor and watched as she toddled toward the basket of toys, her little hands reaching for a stuffed turtle.
I like it, Golden announced.
Amber laughed. The sound was wet, unexpected.
Me too, she said.
---
She found the safe by accident.
It was behind a painting in the master bedroom—a smaller landscape, easier to miss. She'd knocked it askew while reaching for the lamp, and the wall behind it revealed a panel. Not hidden, exactly. Just waiting.
The combination was her birthday.
Amber sat on the floor with the safe open in front of her. Inside: a stack of cash, thick enough to choke on. A passport—Kash's face staring up at her from the pages, younger, unburdened. A thumb drive, black and unmarked. And an envelope.
She knew the handwriting.
She opened it.
My gold,
If you're reading this, I'm gone.
The house is yours. The money is yours. But there's one more thing I need you to know.
I never stopped loving you. Not for one day. I'm sorry I couldn't be the man you deserved.
I tried. I swear to God, I tried.
But some men are beyond saving.
Take care of our daughter. Tell her I loved her. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't be there.
And if you ever find someone who treats you the way you deserve to be treated—someone who comes home every night, someone who holds you when you're scared, someone who doesn't drag you into the dark with him—
Hold onto him.
Don't let him go.
Yours, even now—
Kash
Amber's hands were shaking.
She read the letter twice. Three times. Each time, the words landed harder, sending cracks through the walls she'd built around her heart. She'd spent three years trying to hate him. Three years telling herself he'd abandoned her, that he'd chosen his life over their family, that he didn't deserve her grief.
But here he was.
Still reaching for her from the grave.
Still trying to take care of her.
---
The porch swing creaked beneath her weight.
Amber sat with her knees pulled to her chest, watching the sun sink toward the horizon. Golden was inside, napping on the couch, the stuffed turtle tucked under her arm. The vase of roses sat on the railing, their scent mixing with the salt of the marsh.
She'd called Jayla.
The house is real, she said. He bought it. He filled it with flowers. He kept it clean.
Jayla was quiet for a moment. Then: He was waiting for you.
I know.
What are you gonna do?
Amber looked out at the water. The dock stretched into the marsh, a long wooden finger pointing at nothing. The tide was low. The mud smelled like salt and secrets.
I don't know, she said. I don't know if I can live here. I don't know if I can sell it. I don't know if I can even stay the week.
But you're gonna stay the night.
Yeah.
You're gonna sleep in his bed. Sit on his porch. Feed your daughter breakfast in his kitchen.
Yeah.
That's something, Ambs. That's a start.
Amber closed her eyes.
He left me a letter, she said. A second one. He told me to find someone who would treat me right. Someone who comes home every night.
He was trying, in his way.
His way wasn't enough.
No. But it was all he had.
The sun dipped below the horizon. The sky bled gold and pink and purple, the colors melting together like they'd been painted by a brush. Amber watched until the last sliver of light disappeared, until the porch was lit only by the distant glow of a neighbor's dock light across the water.
Golden appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes.
Mama, I'm hungry.
Amber opened her arms. Golden climbed into her lap, the weight of her small body warm and real.
Let's find you something to eat, Amber said.
Can we have pancakes?
For dinner?
Yes.
Amber laughed and kissed the top of her head.
You're just like your father, she said. He loved breakfast for dinner.
He did?
Every time.
I wish I knewed him.
Amber pulled her closer.
Me too, baby. Me too.
---
They ate pancakes on the porch, sitting on the steps with syrup-sticky fingers and a lantern glowing beside them. The marsh was alive with sound—frogs and crickets and the distant hum of cicadas, a chorus that filled the darkness like a heartbeat.
Golden finished her pancakes and set the plate aside. She leaned against Amber's shoulder, her eyes heavy-lidded, her words slow and sleepy.
Mama?
Yeah?
Are we gonna stay here?
Amber looked at the house behind them. At the windows glowing gold. At the porch swing and the roses and the dock stretching into the water.
I don't know, she said. Maybe.
I like it here.
You do?
It's pretty.
Golden's breathing slowed. Her body relaxed, and Amber felt her drift off, felt the weight of sleep settle over her.
She sat there for a long time.
The water lapped against the dock. The moon rose over the marsh. And in the quiet of that night, Amber made a decision. Not the one she'd been dreading—not to sell, not to stay. Something smaller. Something she could live with.
She would spend the week here. In Kash's house. In his bed. In the life he'd built for them. She would let Golden play in the yard and sleep in her room and eat breakfast on the porch. She would let herself feel whatever there was to feel.
And when the week was over, she would decide what came next.
If anything came next at all.
---
Later, after Golden was asleep in her pale-yellow room, Amber stood in the master bedroom. The window was open. The curtain billowed inward, soft and ghostly, catching the moonlight.
She'd found the photo album in the safe—an old leather book, thick with pages. She'd sat on the bed and flipped through it, her breath catching at every turn.
Kash at twelve. Kash at sixteen. Kash in a suit at his cousin's wedding, grinning like he didn't have a care in the world.
And then—at the very back—a photo she didn't recognize.
Her.
Standing in front of Gloss & Glam, laughing at something the camera couldn't see. She was wearing the red dress, the one with the slit up the thigh, the one she'd worn on their first date. Kash had taken this picture. She was sure of it.
He'd kept it.
All these years, he'd kept it.
Amber closed the album. Set it on the nightstand. Stared at the bed.
Kash's bed.
Their bed.
She pulled back the covers and lay down. The sheets smelled like lavender. Not like him—not like cologne or gunpowder or trouble. Someone had laundered them. Someone had prepared them.
She closed her eyes.
Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn sounded. The marsh whispered. The house held its breath.
And Amber, for the first time in three years, let herself miss him.
Really miss him.
She missed his laugh, loud and unguarded. She missed his hands on her hips, pulling her close. She missed the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered, even when everything else was falling apart.
She missed the man he could have been.
The one he might have become.
If he'd had more time.
If he'd made different choices.
If he'd let her save him.
She lay there for a long time, tears drying on her cheeks, the weight of the house pressing down around her. Not suffocating. Not unbearable.
Just present.
Just there.
And eventually, she slept.
The first sleep in three years that didn't feel like running.
The first sleep in three years that didn't feel like running.
Amber woke to sunlight bleeding through the curtains and the sound of water lapping against the dock. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The ceiling was unfamiliar—wood beams instead of plaster, a fan spinning slow and lazy above her. Then the smell hit her. Lavender. Salt. Something faintly metallic underneath, like old pennies.
She sat up.
Golden's voice drifted in from the hallway, high and curious, asking questions Amber couldn't quite make out. She was talking to someone. Amber's heart seized. She threw off the covers and was halfway to the door before her brain caught up with her body.
The front door was open.
Amber stopped in the hallway, her bare feet cold against the hardwood. Through the screen door, she could see the porch. Golden was sitting on the steps, her pigtails undone, her pajamas rumpled. And beside her, cross-legged on the wooden planks, was a man.
He was wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt. His hair was shorter than she remembered. His shoulders were thinner. But the way he tilted his head when he listened—that was the same. The way his hands moved when he talked—that was the same too.
Amber's knees buckled.
She caught herself on the doorframe.
Kash turned around.
He looked at her through the screen, and his face did something complicated. Relief. Fear. Something that might have been love, if love could survive three years of silence and a funeral.
Hey, Ambs, he said.
His voice was hoarse. Like he'd been screaming. Like he hadn't spoken in weeks.
Amber didn't move.
Golden looked up at her, grinning. Mama, look who came! He brought pancakes!
Amber's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
You're dead, she said.
Kash flinched.
I know, he said. I'm sorry.
You're dead. I went to your funeral. I watched them bury you.
I know.
You're dead, Kash.
He stood up slowly. Golden was still talking, still chattering about the pancakes and the syrup and the way the man had let her pour her own juice. Kash kept his eyes on Amber the whole time.
Can we talk? he asked. Inside?
Amber looked at Golden. At the pancakes. At the man standing on her porch, the man she'd mourned, the man she'd spent two weeks grieving.
She stepped back.
Kitchen, she said. Now.
---
The kitchen smelled like coffee and butter. A paper bag sat on the counter—the kind you got from a diner, grease spots blooming through the brown paper. Kash had brought plates. Real plates, from the cabinet. He'd set the table. He'd poured juice into a kid-sized cup with a lid.
Amber stood by the sink, her arms crossed, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Start talking, she said.
Kash leaned against the counter. He looked exhausted. Not just tired—worn down, hollowed out. The kind of exhaustion that came from months of running, months of looking over your shoulder.
I was gonna tell you, he said. I was gonna call you, I swear.
When? Before or after I watched them lower your casket into the ground?
Ambs—
Don't. Don't you dare call me that.
Kash's jaw tightened.
I needed you to think I was dead, he said. It was the only way.
The only way for what?
To keep you safe. To keep Golden safe.
Amber laughed. The sound was sharp, broken. You've been dead for three years, Kash. You left me in that shop, you walked out that door, and you never came back. You were dead to me long before I got that phone call.
I know.
So what changed? Why now?
Kash pushed off the counter. He walked toward her slowly, like he was approaching a wounded animal.
I promised you, he said.
Promised me what?
That I'd end it. All of it. The life, the shit I was into, the people I owed. I told you I would find a way out, and I did. I'm out, Ambs. I'm done.
Amber stared at him.
You faked your death.
Yes.
You let me mourn you.
Yes.
You let our daughter grow up without a father.
Kash's face crumpled. He looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.
I had to.
---
They sat at the kitchen table. Golden was in the living room, playing with her stuffed turtle, oblivious to the war happening twenty feet away.
Kash explained. It took forty-five minutes. The names blurred together—rival crews, dirty cops, a deal gone wrong in Fayetteville. He'd been marked. Not just him—anyone connected to him. Amber. Golden. Everyone he'd ever loved.
The only way to break the chain was to disappear. To become a ghost. To let the world think he was dead.
I had help, he said. A guy I trusted. He set it up. Fake funeral, fake casket, fake everything. The only people who know I'm alive are you, him, and a priest in Charleston who owes me a favor.
Amber shook her head.
Jayla cried at your funeral.
I know.
Keisha held my hand while I sobbed in the car.
I know.
I thought about killing myself, Kash. Two nights after the funeral, I sat in my bathroom with a bottle of pills and I thought about just... not being here anymore.
Kash reached across the table. Grabbed her hand. His grip was desperate, almost painful.
Don't you ever, he said. Don't you fucking ever.
Amber pulled away.
You don't get to tell me what to do, she said. You don't get to show up here after three years and act like you have a say in my life.
I'm not trying to—
You're not trying to what? Control me? Save me? Love me?
I'm trying to be here, Kash said. For the first time in my life, I'm trying to be here.
Amber stood up. Her chair scraped against the floor.
Golden called from the living room. Mama? Can I have more juice?
Amber didn't answer. She just stared at Kash.
You promised, she said. You promised you'd come back. Three years ago, in my shop, you said you'd come back for me.
I did come back.
It took you three years.
Kash stood up too. They were inches apart now, close enough that Amber could see the lines around his eyes, the gray at his temples. He'd aged a decade in three years.
I couldn't come back until it was safe, he said. I couldn't risk you. I couldn't risk her.
You risked me when you left.
I know.
You risked me when you stayed away.
I know.
You risked me when you let me think you were dead.
I know, Amber. I know. I fucked up. I fucked up every way a man can fuck up. But I'm here now. I'm here, and I'm sorry, and I love you.
Amber wanted to hit him. Wanted to scream. Wanted to fall into his arms and never let go.
She did none of those things.
She walked past him, toward the living room, toward Golden.
I need to think, she said. I need you to leave.
Kash didn't move.
Amber.
Leave, Kash. Go sit on the dock or something. Give me an hour.
He nodded. Grabbed his keys off the counter. Paused at the screen door.
I'm not leaving Savannah, he said. I'm not leaving you. Not again.
Amber didn't answer.
The screen door creaked shut behind him.
---
An hour passed. Then two.
Golden ate the pancakes Kash had brought. Amber couldn't touch hers. She sat on the couch and stared at the wall, her mind racing, her heart at war with itself.
She thought about the letters. The house. The years he'd spent watching from a distance. She thought about the way he'd held her hand at the table. The way his voice cracked when he said I love you.
She thought about the funeral. The casket. The rain.
She thought about the night she'd first met him—twelve years ago, a club in Charlotte, his eyes finding her across the room like she was the only person who existed.
She thought about Golden. Three years old. No father. No memories. No chance to know the man who'd given her those hazel eyes.
By sunset, Amber had made a decision.
She walked down to the dock.
Kash was sitting on the edge, his legs dangling over the water. He didn't turn around when she approached. Just stared at the marsh, the fading light, the world bleeding into purple.
She sat beside him. Close but not touching.
I don't forgive you, she said.
I know.
I might never forgive you.
I know.
But you're her father. And she deserves to know you. She deserves to decide for herself.
Kash turned. His eyes were wet.
You mean that?
I mean it. But there are rules. Boundaries. You don't come around whenever you feel like it. You don't disappear again. You don't bring your old life anywhere near her.
I'm out, Ambs. That life is dead. I'm dead.
I need to believe you.
Then believe me.
Amber looked at him. Really looked. The same man who'd held her on the bathroom floor, who'd whispered my gold against her skin, who'd left her sleeping and walked out the door.
The same man. Different. Softer. Broken in ways she recognized because she was broken too.
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
I missed you, she said.
Kash exhaled. The sound was ragged, like he'd been holding his breath for three years.
I missed you too.
They stayed like that as the sun sank below the horizon, painting the marsh in shades of gold and rose and indigo. The crickets started up. The frogs. The distant hum of something bigger than both of them.
Amber closed her eyes.
For the first time in three years, she felt something other than running. Something other than grief. Something other than fear.
She felt like she was home.
They walked back to the house together, their feet leaving marks in the wet grass. The lights were on inside, Golden's silhouette visible through the window, dancing to a song only she could hear.
Kash stopped at the porch steps.
I should go, he said. Get a motel or something. Give you space.
Amber looked at him. At the house. At the life she'd spent two weeks trying to decide if she wanted.
She reached out and took his hand.
Stay, she said.
Kash's breath caught.
Ambs—
Just stay. We'll figure the rest out tomorrow.
He nodded. Squeezed her fingers. Followed her inside.
The screen door closed behind them.