Chapter 1
One week earlier…
Gertrude “Sully” Sullivan
A woman on the verge of
making some very risky
decisions…
This is stupid.
I shouldn’t be here, and I certainly shouldn’t have sent that text…
I don’t love Mark Tripp.
I don’t even like Mark that much.
Yes, making out with him was fun, but our “situation” ended when the September chill set in. Getting handsy behind the dock house or in some secluded beach cove after work wasn’t nearly as much fun when the temperature was barely above freezing. And we didn’t have anywhere to go to hook up indoors without being found out.
Mark lives with his two cousins—both Tripps who loathe the Sullivan clan for “stirring up trouble” at dock meetings for the past fifty years. If he’d brought me to his place, he would have been labeled the black sheep of the family.
As for the Sullivan clan?
My grandfather hates Rodger Tripp, Mark’s father and the Tripp patriarch, with the passion of a thousand giant lobster claws, snapping closed all at once.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve heard tales of the greedy, selfish Tripps, the family that created an illegal fishing empire in our town by bending the rules and paying off crooked politicians. According to Gramps, the Tripps are trying to squeeze out and destroy anyone who doesn’t share their last name.
The Tripps won’t be happy until every boat in our harbor has their ugly logo painted on the hull. The Tripps lie and cheat and steal. The Tripps don’t sort their recycling and never return their shopping carts to the corral and are probably descended from Satan worshippers.
“There’s a reason they don’t brag about their roots like the rest of those Mayflower assholes,” Gramps is fond of saying when he’s had a few too many at the pub. “They came running up here from Salem right before the witch scare. No noose or burning for them. Oh no, not for the Tripps. They knew when to pull up stakes and run. That’s the problem with witch hunts. Real witches get tipped off by the Dark Lord and get out of town, and you end up burning innocent people.”
And while I’m eighty percent sure he doesn’t really believe in witches or that his nemesis, Rodger Tripp, has a direct line to the devil himself, Gramps would have a cardiac event if I brought a Tripp boy home.
My grandfather has been like a father to me since my own dad proved uninterested in the task, and he’s usually the ultimate “cool” parent. In elementary school, Gramps let me have as many friends over for my Saturday night sleepovers as I wanted and ordered pizza for the entire crew. He worked extra hours to help pay for my braces and my first car and never imposed a curfew. And when I announced my intention to move into the old apartment above his garage after high school, he helped me replace the carpet and install a kitchenette.
Not once, in the six years since I “moved out” has he ever said a word about me bringing boys back to my apartment.
Gramps and I don’t talk about romance, but he never stopped having lady friends over, even when I was little and sleeping right across the hall from his bedroom. And he’s made it clear with his occasional winks across the bar when I’m flirting with a cute tourist that he thinks girls should be allowed to have as much fun as the boys.
As long as that girl isn’t a Sullivan with her eye on a Tripp.
If Gramps knew I’d let Mark Tripp put his hand up my shirt at Whale Song Beach, he would be so disappointed. If he knew I sent Mark a cleavage shot earlier tonight, when I was lonely and wishing I didn’t live in a one-lobster town with men I’ve known since we were children and zero chance of finding a long-term boyfriend, he would toss my phone into the sea.
And maybe me along with it…
I have to get to Mark’s cell phone before he shows that picture to anyone else. Gossip spreads like wildfire in Sea Breeze. Our tiny Maine town is hopping during the tourist season, with music and art festivals, bonfires on the beach, and outdoor movies at the community center. But in October, there’s nothing to do except drink beer, pile on extra layers before you head out on the boat each morning, and talk.
And Mark likes to talk.
He swore he didn’t want anyone to find out about our little secret, either, but he’s the one who kept staring at me across the hall at the Moose Club’s annual lobster feast in August. He’s the one who let his hand brush mine at the farmers’ market, when we both reached for the same loaf of sourdough bread. And he’s the one who told Maya Swallows, one of my best friends, that he thought I looked “beautiful” when I was taking pictures on the dock one afternoon after work.
“He said you looked like a movie star,” Maya had relayed that evening during book club at our friend Elaina’s café. “Isn’t that sweet?”
“No, it’s stupid,” I’d said.
Because it was.
If anyone in our families had been close enough to hear, we’d both be in deep shit, and all for nothing.
Mark doesn’t love me, either. Mark likes the way I look—despite my permanently chapped lips from being on a boat all day, I have the blue eyes and long blond hair he tends to go for—but he likes the way a lot of girls look. He likes inviting other girls to sleep over on his dad’s yacht, too. But not me. I was never special enough to score an invite to stay the night on The Merry Way. Not even when it was basically the only place in town where we would have had a chance of being alone without our families catching on.
The Merry Way has a private slip at the edge of the cove, shielded from easy view by the ice cream shack, with access to the beach trail on the other side. I could have parked at the trailhead, hiked over the dunes to ravage Mark on his dad’s yacht, and been back at my truck before sunrise, with no one the wiser. I’m used to getting up at the ass crack of dawn to be out on the water and so is Mark. If we’d wanted to take things to the next level, it would have been the perfect solution.
But Mark never issued the invitation, and I never hinted that he should. We both knew what we had wasn’t worth the potential fallout.
If only I’d remembered that before I had two hot toddies with Elaina and walked home feeling hot all over and way too alone. If only I’d never snapped that shot while I was stripping down for a shower. If only Mark had responded to one of my five texts begging him to delete the picture once I sobered up.
If only I had magical, time travel powers and could turn back the clock far enough to tell Elaina not to mix me that second drink.
“It’s okay. You came to your senses in time. You can do this. How hard can it be? He’s probably already asleep,” I mutter, creeping farther down the dock and peering around the edge of the shuttered ice cream shack.
It still smells vaguely of waffle cones, even two months after it closed for the season, and my stomach rumbles at the scent of sugary, toasted dough. I press a hand to my midsection, promising my tummy a bowl of ramen when we get home, if it will just keep it quiet for a few more minutes.
Rodger Tripp’s boat is a yacht, but it’s a small yacht. There are only so many places Mark—and his phone—can be. And he must be sleeping pretty hard if he isn’t answering his texts.
Like most of our generation, Mark’s cell might as well be permanently attached to his hand. He always answers texts in a minute or two, even when he’s out on his boat or with another girl. The only time he goes quiet is when he’s unconscious, and even then, only when he’s had a few too many.
It’s Friday night and all the boats in town will remain docked tomorrow in deference to the hurricane sweeping through New England. The storm will pass by a good distance from the coast, but the water will be choppy as hell tomorrow and not worth fishing. Which means every lobster man and woman in town was at the pub tonight or tossing back a few with friends around a backyard bonfire.
I passed three gatherings on my half-mile walk from home and can hear music coming from farther down the shore, where the folks in the heart of town are likely in full, block party mode.
For a moment, as I peek around the side of the shack, I hope that Mark is out at one of those parties. Maybe he dropped his phone on the yacht earlier in the day and forgot about it, and that’s why my “track your friends” app led me here. Maybe I’ll be able to sneak in and grab his cell without risking discovery, after all.
But when my gaze lands on The Merry Way, there’s a light on inside. It’s just a faint light, but it’s a sign of life that wouldn’t be there if no one were on board. Say what you will about the Tripps, but they don’t believe in wasting money or electricity.
I hear Gramp’s voice in my head, insisting that’s another sign that they’re a bunch of greedy bastards, but I ignore it.
I have to stay focused on the task at hand.
Pulling my black hoodie up over my hair and ducking my head, I hurry quietly around the ice cream shack and over to the narrow stretch of dock connecting The Merry Way’s private slip to the rest of the complex. The clouds are on their way, but for now the moon is high and bright, emitting enough light to make my blond hair glow like a beacon.
But that’s why I put on dark clothes before I left the house. Now I blend into the shadows as I creep up the gangplank and step onto the deck, my boots making an unexpectedly loud thunk as they make contact with the polished wood.
I freeze, my stomach dropping and my heart lurching into my throat. I hold my breath, my ears straining for the sound of movement from below, but there’s nothing, just the whistle of the wind through the tattered wind sock on the ice cream shack and the lapping of the waves against the hull. After a beat, I feel safe enough to follow the faint glow of the deck’s solar lights around to the entrance to the living quarters.
I swallow and will my racing pulse to slow.
Mark is a strong guy, but he’s not a gun fanatic like some of the men in town. If he catches me, worst-case scenario, he jumps me before he realizes who I am. I’m not going to get shot for trespassing or stabbed with a rusty fishhook, for goodness’ sake.
The thought reminds me of Sea Breeze’s most persistent local legend, about the sea captain with the hook where his right hand should be, who hunts teenagers at the local make-out spots.
Many towns have versions of this particular legend, of course, but what makes Sea Breeze’s special, is that our sea captain, in his big yellow slicker streaked with blood, always leaves a piece of his coat behind when he claims a victim.
Teens have been finding pieces of that blood-soaked slicker around town for generations. It doesn’t matter that no one’s been murdered around here since the early 1900s, news that a scrap of coat has been found always gives me the creeps. Elaina thinks it’s hysterical. She hates scary books and movies, but for some reason, real-life evidence that someone wants teens to be too terrified to make out in their cars around these parts, gives her the giggles.
At this point, I doubt I’m ever going to giggle again.
By the time I reach the base of the stairs leading down into the yacht’s main living area, my heart is punching holes in my chest, and my throat is so dry it makes a strange sound as I swallow.
So, I stop trying to swallow.
No sounds. No noise.
Just a silent journey to the bedroom where I will retrieve Mark’s phone from where it hopefully sits on the bedside table, delete my five text messages and the incriminating photo, and then make an equally swift and silent retreat.
For a moment, all appears to be going according to plan.
I make it through the graciously appointed living room, down the narrow hallway, with the bathroom and smaller bedroom on either side, and back to the master, where Mark lies sleeping beneath the covers.
I can just make him out in the gloom.
The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the moonlight penetrating the curtains on the left side of the space. The curtains appear to be a lighter color, but they’re thick, rich people curtains, with a dense weave that keeps light out and sound in. I bet Mark could be banging his girl of the moment in this bed and no one on deck would hear a thing.
As I step inside, my footsteps silent on the lush carpet, I have the sensation of being swallowed. Everything feels muffled, like I’m in the belly of one of the whales that arrive here in the spring to gorge on plankton and fish.
Later, I’ll blame the sound-dampening properties of the space for the fact that I don’t hear Mark moving until it’s too late.
As for the fact that I don’t realize the man in the bed isn’t Mark until I’m pinned under his powerful body?
Well, I’m not sure what to blame for that except the darkness and bad fucking luck.