Chapter Sixteen
—JAMIE
Twelve stitches and a tetanus shot later, I am freed from the hospital. My arm doesn’t hurt right now—numb from the lidocaine—but the bandages are thick, stiff. I can barely bend my wrist.
Unfortunately, though, the nurse did call my mother.
I find her waiting in one of the lobby chairs, overdressed and out of place among the normal people.
Her lips are pulled downward, like she finds the fluorescent lights and scuffed tiles personally offensive.
She stands when she sees me, her expression flipping between relief and irritation before settling into something unreadable.
“What happened?” she demands. “And why didn’t you call me before coming here?”
“I tried,” I say. “But I was unconscious.” I smile at her, but she doesn’t seem amused. “I was making some repairs on my boat,” I explain. “And I ended up cutting myself on the engine.”
I don’t even hesitate to lie to her, because honestly, where would I even start? Haunted hotel? Dead body in the trees? Oh, maybe the part where a couple of guys shot at me?
My mother scoffs. “I’ve told you a hundred times that it’s not your job to repair the boat. We have people for that.”
“I like to get my hands dirty.”
“No, you like to be stubborn,” she says. “How many stitches did you get?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“How many?” she demands.
“Twelve,” I tell her defensively.
“Just wonderful,” she says. “I’m sure that will look beautiful.”
“Yeah, I guess my modeling career is over,” I reply.
My mother keeps her sour expression, but then the moment passes. She motions toward the exit doors. “Let’s go,” she says. As we walk, she looks me over. “Do I even want to know about the black eye?” she asks.
“Doubtful,” I tell her.
When we get outside, the air smells like salt, and the distant crying of seagulls echoes off the hospital’s glass doors. Our driver stands at the curb next to the town car, the vehicle looking too polished, too sleek, for a hospital pickup lane.
My mother turns to me, arms crossed again. “I’m not sure why you’re giving me such a hard time,” she says in a hushed voice. “I’m the one who should be pissed after getting a surprise call from the local hospital, informing me that my son was injured.”
She gestures toward the building, and it’s unclear if she’s more upset that they called instead of me, or that I wasn’t taken to a private hospital in the first place.
“And where’s Jordan?” she adds. “You left with her this morning, but somehow I doubt she was there when you got hurt. And don’t insult me by pretending this was really about an engine.”
I stiffen but don’t answer. I don’t want to talk about Jordan, and I definitely don’t want to talk about what really happened. But I’m surprised to hear my mother use the word “pissed.” My father would hate that.
Before she was Izzie Matthews, my mother was Isabelle Garda—a defense attorney, a successful one.
She helped my father build his IT security company from the ground up, working by his side.
Back then, we were a real family. Or at least, it felt that way.
But once my father’s company hit the stock exchange, flooding us with money, we weren’t people anymore—we were an image.
The perfect family on the glossy Christmas cards. And it was all fake.
What I wouldn’t give to go back to a time when we were real. A time before I found out that my father was having an affair.
It all happened by accident. I shouldn’t have even been on his computer.
But one night at the resort, I was too lazy to walk back to my room to get my computer, so I grabbed my father’s to check the score of a game.
He was out to dinner with my mother as I signed in as a guest. Went to ESPN. It was all innocent.
Then a message popped up from his phone app.
Another. I read them and I… well, I read them and I learned that my father had a girlfriend, a colleague from work.
He owned a fucking security firm and he didn’t protect his own laptop, that’s how deep he was in it—making those kinds of mistakes. And I was… furious.
At first, I tried to let it go—I didn’t want to blow up our lives. I didn’t tell my father that I knew, didn’t tell anyone. Not even Noa, who I told everything to.
But then, I’d see my father on the phone out on the balcony. Hear him laugh. I saw my mother, wilting at the table. So I started checking my father’s messages and found out his girlfriend was staying at the resort too. Like they were flaunting their relationship. And I couldn’t watch anymore.
I went to my mother first—that’s important.
I was trying to protect her. I really was.
But… she didn’t believe me. She didn’t want to believe me.
I confronted her with indisputable proof, messages and dates and times.
After staring at them, the two of us standing in the resort suite, my mother looked me dead in the eyes and told me that marriage was complicated and that hers was none of my business.
So late one night, I broke into my father’s email account and shared the messages with his other partners. It was stupid, petty. But I was desperate. I wanted someone to hold him accountable. I wanted to know that Brent Matthews wasn’t untouchable.
It didn’t work out that way. He didn’t even get a slap on the wrist.
He figured out it was me pretty quickly.
I was forbidden from saying goodbye to my sister, from anyone, as my father placed me in the car the next morning.
He’d torn me down by then, berated and humiliated me.
Threatened me. Later, my grandfather tried to intervene on my behalf and was promptly cut off too.
No one could save me from my father’s wrath.
Now outside the hospital, the driver opens the back door of the town car as my mother approaches, but I pause on the sidewalk and try to swallow down my residual anger. The bitterness still flares from time to time.
My parents said they were giving me another chance by letting me come back to the resort.
A chance to prove that I had changed. My entire family was left in shambles, and for a long time, I was sure that it was my fault.
I shouldn’t have been checking the sports scores that day.
As my father said, I was the one who broke my mother’s heart.
The driver clears his throat, startling me from my thoughts. He nods toward the car, and I quickly climb in the back with my mother. When we’re settled, she glances sideways at me.
“I talked to the resort about accommodations for your injury,” she says. “The in-house medical unit sent up arm wraps that you can use for the pool and shower, to keep the wound from getting wet. I thought that sounded nice.”
“Definitely,” I tell her. Thinking about the past has made me a bit lonely. The last few years have been difficult for me. “Are you hungry?” I ask my mother. “Do you want to go for lunch?”
She’s speechless for a moment. Whether it’s the culmination of today’s events or dredging up the past, I’m feeling suddenly desperate for her attention.
“We can get a burger,” I add before she can refuse. “Nothing fancy.”
She seems to think about it, and although I can’t imagine my mother eating a simple burger at this point, she smiles a little. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “But I think we should invite your sister.”
“Of course,” I say, smiling.
“Astrid deserves a little downtime,” my mother adds. “But you, on the other hand, are still in trouble.”
“Always,” I say, although I’m not angry.
My mother watches me a moment, and there’s a mistiness in her eyes. Almost like she misses me too. Her lips flinch with a smile, and then she tells the driver to take us to the resort to pick up Astrid.
Although I would have been fine with Whataburger, we end up going to a high-class burger joint along the water near the Sunset Docks. Compared to the charm of the Surf Shack, this marina feels cold and lifeless. Which… reminds me of what I saw while running from the Starline Hotel.
I pick at my fries as my mother and Astrid chat, their voices sounding far-off as I think back to that moment.
My arm is throbbing again. So is my head.
And in my mind I can see a lump in the mud of the marsh with dark hair, I think—or it could have been blood or dirt.
There was a hand outstretched, the fingertips black. Whoever it was had to be dead.
Could it have been Ellis? God, I hope not.
Pushing my plate away, my appetite gone, I take out my phone to check the news.
Although I considered telling the nurses at the hospital about the body right away, I hesitated.
There’s a lot wrapped into that story and even more I’d have to admit to my parents.
I’m assuming that Noa and the others have taken the lead and notified the sheriff.
It’s their town, after all. By now, they probably know who’s in the marsh.
I wonder if they know who shot at us.
As I’m scrolling through news stories, my sister calls my name. I glance up at her, and she looks impatient, as if she’s said it several times already.
“What?” I ask her, setting my phone aside.
“I said a girl called for you,” Astrid replies. “She called the resort and said she needed to see you and that you should come by her place when you get home.”
I’m a bit taken aback, quickly darting a glance at my mother, who seems to be holding back a smile. “Oh,” I say to my sister. “Good.” I pause. “Did… did she sound all right?”
Astrid smiles. “She said you’d be worried,” she adds. “Wanted you to know that her family is all fine.”
I sigh out my relief. “Thank you.”
“A girl?” my mother repeats, setting her elbows on either side of her plate to lean toward me. “Now, who is this? Does Jordan know?”
“It’s none of Jordan’s business,” I say, earning an inquisitive look from my mother. “And the girl…” I continue, “is just a…” Friend? Chaser? Love of my life? “A girl I know,” I finish.