We’re out of time.
Lola hits the pier in a low crouch. I skip the last two rungs and hit hard, sneakers slapping against the planks, momentum jolting up my legs. I catch myself on one hand, breath punching out of me, then shove upright.
“Move!” Lola snaps, already pulling at my wrist.
We tear down the pier. Lights smear past in bright, useless streaks, and the ocean murmurs beneath us like it’s in on a private joke. Someone shouts behind us, close enough to feel, but I don’t look back. Looking back has never saved anyone.
We’re almost at the end of the pier when a motor coughs to life. The sound cracks the night wide open.
Beckett.
God bless my brother.
Instead of waiting like we planned, he’s already spinning the tender in a tight arc, bow cutting through the dark water as he races toward us, not away. The engine snarls, white spray flaring out behind him.
“Jump!” he shouts.
Lola doesn’t hesitate. She launches herself onto the boat without a backward glance.
I follow a heartbeat later, pushing off the pier hard. For a split second, when my feet leave solid ground, panic claws up my spine and my brain betrays me—I swear I feel someone lunging, fingers reaching for my ponytail.
My breath snaps tight.
But nothing touches me. Just my brain doing what it always does—building monsters out of shadows when I don’t have time to fight them.
I crash into the tender, stomach lurching violently. The boat dips under our combined weight, then steadies as Beckett guns the throttle.
Wind slams into me, tearing at my hair, dragging salt spray across my cheeks. The backpack and vest drag heavy with cash and jewelry and the kind of hope we can’t afford to look at too closely.
“Go, go, go!” Lola screams.
Beckett doesn’t need the encouragement. The tender launches forward, engine snarling like it’s trying to outrun the night itself.
I twist toward the yacht, begging my pulse to settle down. My lungs still can’t decide whether to burn or freeze.
Shadows race across the deck. Chaos moving in human shapes.
And then someone steps onto the bow. He plants himself directly beneath the marina lights, tall and broad-shouldered, both hands braced on the rail like he’s holding the world in place. The spotlight hits him hard, carving his face into sharp lines I’ve spent six years trying not to remember.
The world tilts.
Because I know that face.
I’d know it anywhere. I memorized it before I understood what it meant to lose things.
The first boy I ever loved. And the first boy ever to break my heart.
Gage Calloway.
2
GAGE
There’sa fist wrapped around my heart, squeezing harder every second the tender gets farther away. I don’t move. My hands stay welded to the cold railing of the bow, my body pitched forward like if I lean far enough, I can drag the moment back to me.
Dragherback to me.
Salt wind slaps my face, but I barely register it. My hair falls into my eyes, and I flick it back, refusing to blink. If I blink, she’s gone. The shape of her. The way my brain is already lying to me about what I saw. I need to keep looking, even though there’s nothing left to see.
