The Group Trip
Prologue
PROLOGUE
T HE SKY IS BLUE, the sand is white, and the water is a shimmering green. That’s how this stretch of beach on the Panhandle of Florida gets its name: The Emerald Coast . In the exclusive town of Seaside where Chloe is vacationing, the beaches are private. This strikes her as unnatural, limiting access to something that should belong to everyone. There are a handful of public access points, but mostly you need a key if you want to touch sand. Long boardwalks provide peeks of the ocean, but at the end there’s a gate. And only the select few who pay enough to belong can enter this shoreline. Of course, when you’re staying in an oceanfront house, this isn’t an issue.
Chloe doesn’t complain. After all, she’s spent six days soaking in the sun on teak lounge chairs arranged each morning by a concierge service, sipping frozen cocktails delivered by a catering team, and watching the sunset on cushions surrounding a beach bonfire while nibbling crab and corn fritters.
She likes the space this privilege affords. She can swim in the ocean without bumping into another body. She can whisper secrets about the night before without the family on the next towel overhearing. She can walk up and down the empty beach and wonder how it’s possible to love and hate the same person.
If this were any other year, Chloe and her friends would have to shout over laughter, they’d be exhausted from staying up all night talking, and her cheeks would ache from the constant smiling. But this trip is different. And that’s mostly Chloe’s fault.
If she has discovered anything over the last six days, it’s that her best friends are full of secrets. And no matter how hard she tries to fix the mistakes she’s made, she fears that they may have grown too far apart.
She glances at her watch. They’re supposed to gather for another beachside dinner, but everyone else is already thirty minutes late.
They scattered today, her friends venturing in opposite directions, dispersing to the various beach towns that neighbor Seaside. Rosemary Beach with its European-style village, and Alys Beach with its white stucco buildings. The surfers gather in Grayton Beach, and the nature lovers congregate in the towns with the biggest dune lakes, Blue Mountain and Watercolor. The area is called 30A because that’s the county road that winds along the coast, connecting one village to another.
A cluster of beach towns, each with its own unique personality, not unlike Chloe’s group of friends. This trip is supposed to bring everyone together. But if tonight is anything like the last few nights, someone will get too drunk, someone will cry, and they’ll all spend the night wondering what went wrong. Again.
The catering crew has set up a circle of tiki torches and low tables covered with food: heirloom tomatoes topped with cracked pepper and blue cheese crumbles, fried oysters with caper aioli, grilled grouper with creamed corn and basil vinaigrette, a key lime pie with graham cracker crust. She is the only one on the beach, and she adjusts the straps of her blue gingham dress as she stares back at the house full of her friends.
From her chair, she can see familiar bodies moving around the oceanfront mansion. The silhouettes of two women, fingers pointing. Are they shouting again? A door closes and a tall figure emerges onto the back deck. She knows who it is by the limp in his gait. The way he carefully leans against the railing so as not to jostle his bruised body.
There’s a seagull chirping, a car door slamming, and then silence. She turns away from the house and all its chaos and pain. The five people she loves most are inside. How do friends that became family turn back into strangers?
Chloe stands and walks to the edge of the ocean. The waves lap against her bare feet, and she watches as her toes sink into the sand. She takes one step into the water and then another. She flings her dress over her head, revealing the bikini that has barely left her body this week and dives under. Immediately, the cool water erases any lingering traces of hot Florida sun. The whirring silence of being underwater is a welcome break from the constant echo of shouts. She swims out as far as she can and when she finally surfaces, it’s the smell she notices first.
She doesn’t think much of it, assuming it’s another one of the elaborate bonfires being set up. Or maybe a spill of kerosene from the tiki torches. But when she hears the shriek, Chloe knows something is wrong.
She turns around and sees flames on the back deck. They spread quickly, the entire back of the house soon engulfed. She swims to shore, her heart and breath in a competition to see which one is going to give out first. Her eyes scan the shoreline, trying to count the friends running out of the house.
It happens so fast. Chloe thinks that a whole home shouldn’t burn so quickly. But it does. Giant clouds of gray smoke billow up into the sky as she hears sirens approaching.
When she finally reaches the sand, she’s grateful for the first time this week that they’ve gathered close together. The water beads on her bare skin as she joins her friends, their eyes focused on the flames. Everyone’s breath is ragged. No one is speaking, paralyzed by shock and fear. She counts. One. Two. Three. Four.
Sloane.
Alden.
Marianne.
Wyatt.
When the house explodes, the flames having reached the propane tank in the basement, Chloe’s eyes dart back and forth from the house to the beach, scanning for another person.
“Luke!” Chloe screams. But no one answers.