All Signs Point to Malibu

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Sun blazes down over the Malibu coastline as I dodge wedding guests in the posh, luxurious courtyard of the Banks Resort Hotel. People wearing designer clothes and flabbergasted expressions are in my periphery as I desperately try to avoid eye contact. The music has stopped, but photographers are delighted to continue capturing the “festivities.” Bridezilla’s approach sets off my fight-or-flight instincts and I’m not sure I could take her, so I quicken my pace as I make my way through the over-the-top flower arches lining the wedding aisle. An overpowering stench of lilies makes my eyes water, blurring my path, and I narrowly escape a tumble on bunched-up pink velvet carpeting.

That could have been disastrous for the bride.

Instead, I bang my shin against a chair as I flee for my life—away from eight angry bridesmaids in hot pursuit. Moving fast in heels is a skill that should definitely be taught in finishing schools. I collide with a server carrying a tray of champagne flutes and grab one before they fall to the Astroturf. I down it quickly for liquid courage then toss the glass aside.

With the furious entourage closing in and dozens of cell phone cameras pointed my way, I jump over the short wall that separates the resort property from the beach, snagging the hem of my maid of honor dress. I hear a rip and pray my Wonder Woman underwear aren’t on display. Though, once the guest videos go viral, my choice of undergarments will be the least of my worries.

Stumbling over my strappy stilettos, I run down the boardwalk, tripping over uneven planks of decaying wood, all the way to the beach. I kick off my heels and my feet sink deep into the scorching sand as I continue my escape.

I can hear the wedding guests in the courtyard behind me. A mix of shock, anger, and gossipy amusement drifts on the ocean-scented breeze. This day has turned from matrimonial bliss to a complete shitstorm.

Arguably, I’m to blame.

Desperate for air, I pause, bending at the waist. Deep breaths in and out as I glance over my shoulder. No one’s following me. Absolutely no one. My gut tightens as that realization is heart-wrenchingly worse.

I straighten slowly and—gripping the fabric of my dress in one hand, my shoes in the other—I walk along the beach, getting lost in a sea of brightly colored umbrellas. Crashing waves along the shore mask the sound of my heart pounding, but nothing can drown the dread building in my chest.

How did I let this happen?

Life wasn’t always so full of drama. Up until a few weeks ago, I had just the expected levels of stress, self-doubt, and anxiety. Then things started to spiral out of control. One mishap after the other culminating to this epic fuckup...

I knew that goddamn tremor was a bad omen.