Chapter 29
On my drive home to talk to Beau, the storm is already making itself known with meteorological tantrums. Outer bands sweep through in sudden, slanted bursts of wind and rain. The lakes are choppy, too. Like the water knows something is coming.
By the time I pull onto Isle of Sicily, the rain has stopped, but there’s an eerie air to the lull. The low, restless cloud cover grays the midafternoon sky.
All of this, and Tippy Schaeffer is still out for some kind of hot-girl walk, athleisure-clad and ponytail bouncing. As if a hurricane could slow down the resistance training regimes around here.
She must see me as I pull onto our street, because she’s waving for me to stop. I’m tempted to ignore her and speed up, but then, she pretends like she’s going to step right in my path, laughing as she pantomimes.
I’m hanging on by a thread, Tippy. Don’t threaten me with a good time.
“Hi, honey!” she calls with a wave.
“Hey, Tippy.” I try to find some enthusiasm as I roll my window down.
If she notices that my mind is elsewhere, she doesn’t let on as she says, “I’m on my way to Ford’s. He and Shep bumped into each other at the club this morning, and they decided we should have a little hurricane party.”
I frown. “A hurricane party?”
“They figured we could all blow off a little steam after a day of storm prep.”
“Sounds fun,” I mutter, not meaning it.
But I’m not sure I’m welcome at Ford’s house after Ms. Dowling caught me breaking in.
“So you’ll come?”
I grip the wheel and make some kind of noncommittal gesture with my hand.
Tippy must only see the answer she wants, because she’s already clapping and bouncing on her toes. “Yay! Hey, can I ride with you?” She doesn’t wait for me to agree before she rounds the hood of my car and climbs into the passenger seat. “This humidity is doing a number on my flyaways.”
I force a smile, but inside I’m screaming.
Am I a hurricane party hostage now?
By the time I pull into my garage, she hasn’t stopped talking about her hair, and I’m wondering if it’s too late to fake a migraine. But she’s already out of the car, breezing toward my kitchen door like she owns the place.
“Shep said everyone’s out back in the outdoor living room,” she calls, as if I’ve agreed to any of this.
And just like that, I’m swept along with her, through my own house and onto my pool deck. The sky outside is a deep-bruise purple. Wind is tugging palm trees into a lean, and the air buzzes with that strange electric pressure that always comes before a storm breaks.
From next door, I can tell that a party is already under way. The sound hits me first. Laughter and music carry through the humid air.
And as we clear the hedges that lead to the McGinnis house, Ford’s backyard—dressed up for a party—comes into view.
The pool deck is cleared of any furniture that could blow around in the storm, but beneath a pergola near the pool, string lights are straining against the wind, and a buffet of cocktails and finger foods is lined up as golf plays on a TV in the background.
Nothing like drinks and canapés while the world is trying to blow itself apart.
It’s a small crowd, limited to the people living within a few houses.
Carol Parker is perched on a wicker sofa, clutching a glass of sauvignon blanc like she’s taking communion.
Shep hovers nearby, booming with some story I’m sure he’ll never finish.
Across the space, Polly darts between adults with a handful of tortilla chips, and Ford stands at the grill, spatula in hand, wearing what I believe to be the only kind of clothes he owns: khaki shorts and a polo shirt.
A golfer is a golfer is a golfer. He probably sleeps in a Nike quarter-zip.
Beau is standing near the grill, holding a bottled IPA and talking to Ford. If it weren’t for the looming murder charge, he’d look positively suburban.
But we have never really fit in here. I used to think we were above the petty swipes and frivolous party invitations, but my smug attitude toward the meaningless politics of this place feels like a farce now.
They stay worried about their Garden Club catering and designer wardrobes while I am trying to outrun secrets and accusations that could end my life as I know it.
Their social politics—and the ability to worry about such small details—are the highest form of privilege.
Shame on me for misunderstanding that simple fact.
As I step onto the deck, all I can think is how lucky I would be if my only concern was the country club events calendar right now.
Beau looks up, and his jaw twitches at the sight of me.
“Hey,” he says first as I reach the pergola.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice flat.
Carol and Shep offer a chorus of polite welcomes, and a breeze comes off the lake, sweeping up the lawn and tugging the loose strands of my hair away from my face.
“Este.” Ford turns, that headline-grabbing smile on full display. “I’m glad you made it.”
And I’m glad I’m allowed on your property after I was caught breaking into your garage.
Carol must be likewise stunned there isn’t a court order keeping me off Ford’s lawn, because she clears her throat at a volume that rises above the hushed commentary of the Golf Channel.
Glancing between Carol and Ford, though, it appears no one has told him about my misbegotten recon mission.
Surely Ms. Dowling has had the chance. Through the kitchen window, I can see her at the sink, posture straight as a ruler, still very much employed. She doesn’t look up, but the sight of her makes me feel uneasy. She could have told him. She should have told him.
Yet here Ford is, smiling at me like no one has ever caught me red-handed pawing through his sporting gear.
Either Ms. Dowling has decided to keep my secret. Or, like Carol, she’s waiting for the perfect moment to use it.
Beau reaches me, touching my arm to pull my attention away from Ms. Dowling in the window.
“We should talk,” he says.
“I don’t think here is—”
But he’s not taking no for an answer. He puts a hand under my elbow and guides me a few steps away from the crowd, so we can whisper without being heard.
I can see the urgency in his eyes. He can’t wait. Can’t stand there being conflict between us. “I want you to know I’m sorry. For all of it. Redwood. The security footage. I wanted you to be happy. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.”
“You should have told me. About the Redwood hack. It wasn’t fair, leaving me in the dark like that.”
His jaw flexes once, twice. “I know.”
“But Marcus showed me the footage.”
“Good.” He takes a step closer. “Then you know I couldn’t have killed her, because—”
“What did you fight about?” I stop him. “You and Gemma?”
Beau’s shoulders sag, like the question itself is too heavy. “She had a lot of money tied up in Redwood stock. When the company went under, she lost her savings.”
A piece of the puzzle clicks into place. “And she blamed you? Because of the hack?”
Gemma and her recreational stock habits all came crashing down because she followed the wrong tip.
Does Simon know that? Were Simon and Gemma working together?
Beau says solemnly, “I told her I was sorry. I offered her some money to get her back on her feet, but she wanted me to admit I had done it.”
The wind pushes hard on the trees down by the docks, their treetops bowing with the gust. And I wonder how much pressure they’ll submit to before they collapse.
“But I didn’t hack Redwood,” he says.
“That’s not the same thing as not being behind it.”
His eyes lift to mine, steady but shadowed. “No, it’s not.”
The words sink in my stomach until I think they’ve reached my toes, and it feels like I’m standing in quicksand. “What does that mean, Beau?”
There’s a commotion by the doors that lead from the living room out to the pool—someone’s just arrived.
From behind me, Polly shrieks, “He’s here!”
She’s racing from the pergola to the door as the color drains from my face.
Conversations falter and my breath catches at the top of my throat as we all watch him step outside.
Polly beams, and Simon Avery crouches to meet her, folding her into a hug.
She’s buzzing, practically dancing in place, and then, as if someone might have missed the way the earth shook a little and a hellmouth opened up beneath us, she shouts, “Dad, Uncle Simon’s here!”