Chapter 34: THE BLINDSPOT
Kate's smile caught the morning light like something precious.
"I've been unfair to you."
The words landed in my chest with the weight of relief I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. Four days of cold distance, of avoided eye contact, of sleeping alone while the woman I'd been falling for built walls between us—and now this. Her hand found mine, warm and deliberate.
"I have secrets. Everyone does. You're not wrong about that." She squeezed gently. "But I've been treating you like a suspect instead of someone I care about. That wasn't fair."
"What changed?"
"I talked to some people. Claire, Charlie, Rose. People you've actually helped." Her expression softened. "They reminded me that actions matter more than mysteries. And your actions have been... good. Even when I couldn't understand them."
This is what you wanted. What you've been hoping for since she started pulling away.
But something nagged at the edge of my awareness. The smile was perfect—too perfect. The words were right, but the rhythm felt rehearsed. And when our hands touched, her grip was controlled, careful, as if she was consciously managing what contact she allowed.
You're being paranoid. She's trying to reconcile. Don't ruin it by looking for problems.
"I missed you, Freckles."
"I missed you too."
We walked together toward the beach camp, and the camp noticed. Heads turned. Conversations paused. The triangle that had been forming—Kate drifting toward Jack, away from me—seemed to reverse course in a single morning.
---
The conversation by the fire that afternoon felt almost normal.
Kate asked about the Others, about our surveillance network with Sayid, about what I thought was coming. Reasonable questions for someone trying to understand the threats we faced. I answered—maybe more openly than I should have, but the relief of connection made me careless.
"Do you think they'll attack? The Others?"
"Eventually. They've been watching more closely since we opened the hatch. Whatever they're planning, it'll involve that station somehow."
"How do you know they're watching more closely?"
"Sayid and I set up counter-surveillance. We've mapped their observation posts, tracked their rotation patterns." I realized too late that I was revealing tactical information I'd meant to keep close. "It's just precaution."
"No, it's smart." She leaned closer, and her proximity made my heart rate spike despite my best efforts at composure. "What do you think they want? The Others?"
They want Ben captured, eventually. They want the hatch. They want to maintain control of the Island. They want—
"I don't know exactly. Power, probably. Control over the Island's resources."
"But you have theories."
"Everyone has theories."
"Yours are usually right."
The observation was wrapped in admiration, but something about it made me pause. She was cataloguing my answers, I realized. Not just listening—recording. Building a picture from the pieces I was giving her.
She's testing you. Seeing how much you'll reveal.
But the thought felt ungrateful, suspicious in a way that seemed to betray the reconciliation she was offering. I pushed it aside and continued talking, sharing more than I should because the alternative was returning to the cold distance of recent days.
---
Hurley found me near the water barrels that evening.
"Dude, can we talk?"
"Sure."
He glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. "Something's off with Kate."
"She's fine. We're fine. We worked things out."
"That's what I'm worried about." His expression carried unusual seriousness. "She's been spending a lot of time with Ana Lucia. Like, a lot. And she was asking me questions about you this morning."
"What kind of questions?"
"Specific stuff. About when you first mentioned the caves, how long before the polar bear attack you started carrying the gun, whether you seemed to know about Ethan before the census." He swallowed. "It sounded like she was building a timeline."
A timeline of my impossible knowledge. A pattern she could present to others.
"She's probably just trying to understand things. We all are."
"That's what I told myself at first. But then I saw her with Ana Lucia, and they were comparing notebooks." Hurley's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Notebooks, dude. Like, multiple pages of notes. About you."
The information should have alarmed me. Should have triggered defensive protocols, contingency plans, the carefully maintained walls I'd built around my secrets. Instead, I found myself making excuses.
"Ana Lucia's a cop. She probably takes notes about everything."
"Maybe. But Kate didn't used to. And now she does." Hurley's hand found my shoulder. "I'm not saying don't trust her. I'm saying be careful. Because the Kate who kissed you goodnight last night? She looked like she was gathering intel, not sharing a moment."
He's seeing things that aren't there. Kate's trying to reconnect, and you're letting paranoia poison it.
"I appreciate the concern. But I think you're reading too much into things."
"I hope so, man. I really do."
He walked away, leaving me with questions I didn't want to examine too closely.
---
Charlie's guitar echoed across the evening camp.
I'd been sitting at the edge of the gathering, watching without participating, when he appeared beside me with the instrument.
"You look like you could use a distraction."
"That obvious?"
"Dude, your face has been cycling through emotions like a broken traffic light." He strummed a chord. "Here. Try this one."
He positioned my fingers on the frets, demonstrating a simple progression. My hands cooperated—Sawyer's hands, calloused from labor and violence, not naturally suited to music. But the physical focus helped. Something to concentrate on besides Kate's smile and Hurley's warning and the constant pressure of maintaining impossible secrets.
"G to C to D," Charlie coached. "Basic but effective. You could write half the Beatles catalog with just those three."
"I don't think I'm songwriter material."
"Everyone's songwriter material. It's just finding the right story to tell." He watched me fumble through the progression. "Speaking of which—Claire says Kate's been asking about you."
"Everyone's asking about me lately."
"Yeah, but Kate's asking different questions. Claire said it felt like an interview, not a conversation."
The same observation from multiple sources. Hurley, now Claire through Charlie. Either they're all paranoid, or—
I missed the chord change, producing a discordant clang. Charlie winced sympathetically.
"Want to know what I think?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really." He set the guitar aside. "Kate's scared. Not of you, exactly—of what you represent. You know things you shouldn't. You do things that don't make sense. And for someone who's spent her whole life running from one mystery to another, that kind of uncertainty is terrifying."
"So she's investigating me because she's scared?"
"She's investigating you because she cares. That's the worst part." Charlie's expression held genuine sympathy. "When Kate doesn't care, she just leaves. When she cares and can't understand—she digs. It's how she deals with things she can't control."
A psychological profile of the woman I'm sleeping beside. From Charlie Pace, of all people.
"When did you become the camp therapist?"
"I've had a lot of time to observe people. Recovery meetings, you know? You learn to read the signs." He picked up the guitar again. "Just—whatever happens with you two, don't be surprised if it gets worse before it gets better. Kate's the type to tear everything down just to see what's underneath."
---
Kate found me that night at my usual spot on the beach.
The stars blazed overhead—the same constellations that had hung over my previous life, unchanged despite everything else that had shifted. She settled beside me, close enough that I could smell the salt on her skin.
"Today was good."
"It was."
"I'm glad we're trying again. Whatever's happening between us—it's worth fighting for."
She means it. Or she wants you to think she means it. Or you're so desperate for connection that you can't tell the difference.
"Kate, can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Are we okay? Really okay? Because Hurley said—"
She kissed me before I could finish the sentence.
It felt like forgiveness. Like the promise of everything we'd been building before the distance started. Her lips tasted like salt and something sweeter, and for a moment I let myself believe that all my suspicions were groundless.
"Does that answer your question?"
"I think so."
She smiled—that perfect, warm smile—and kissed me again.
The sweetest lies are the ones you want to believe.
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