“If you’re sure that you can behave,” she says slowly, almost testing me. “I’ll think about allowing you to attend tonight. But I will have to discuss it with my staff first, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“I would do anything to make this right,” I tell her, my voice earnest.
“Very well. I’ll let you know my decision shortly,” she replies, and then, with a tone that cuts through the air like a knife, “And, James, don’t fuck with my resort again.”
The words hit me harder than I expect, a chill running down my spine. “Yes, Mrs. Miles,” I say, barely able to keep the nerves out of my voice.
I hang up, standing frozen for a moment as I consider my unease. Cecelia Miles has the same kind of power as my father—intimidation. I get why Jordan always has to lie to her. I’m still catching my breath when I hear footsteps behind me.
Noa looks me over, trying to gauge the answer. “Well?” she asks.
I look at her, and then glance around at the others. “She said she’d let me know,” I tell them. I shrug my uncertainty, but just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I take it out, smiling when I see it’s Jordan sending a message.
Meet me at the entrance tonight at eight,she writes.And you’d better look damn good. My mom is ready to blacken your other eye.
I grin, the tension easing just a little. I let Jordan know that I’ll be there, and then turn back to the others. “Now what?” I ask.
Tech sighs. “Well, now that we know the sheriff has been working with Noa’s dad and Ellis, I think I should go talk to him again.”
“What are you going to say?” Noa asks.
“Not sure yet, but we need to all be on the same page. If you find something on that computer”—he motions to me—“we want the sheriff to be ready. And now that we think we can trust him again”—he looks at Noa and she nods—“we need to get him my uncle’s journal. It’s time to show him the truth about the Starline Hotel.”
“Will that be enough?” I ask. “It’s just a journal—what can it prove?”
“For starters,” Tech says, “the sheriff already knows the hotel didn’t burn down, which discredits the original police report. On top of that, there are names in there of other Chasers, people who were working that night and know what happened. I think it could be enough to exonerate my uncle, but with the rest of the details like the letters, the life insurance, the cover-up… it might be enough for them to investigate Mancini for Florence Marsten’s death.”
“How about Felix?” she asks hopefully.
For this, Tech looks at me. It would mean implicating my father in the crime. My entire body seems to react, because although I want justice, there is still a tiny piece of me that hopes my father isn’t evil.
“Tread lightly,” I tell him. “No offense, but we still need to be a hundred percent that the sheriff’s not somehow on the payroll. Helping Ellis is one thing. Facing off against a crime family is another.”
“Yeah, that’s good,” Tech says, nodding along. “I plant the seeds, see where it all goes. Either way, we’re getting Mancini on his radar. Hopefully he can figure out a way to take him down.”
“Let’s all hope so,” Noa says, stepping up to hug him. When she pulls back, they smile at each other—cautious, yet hopeful.
“Okay,” Tech says, taking a deep breath. “Shawn’s going to take me to pick up the letters from my house, and then we’ll head to the sheriff’s station. And you, my friend,” he tells me, tapping my wrinkled T-shirt, “had better find a tailor who takes resort credit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
—NOA
The rain is coming downin a steady stream. Thunder rumbles every few minutes. Along the beach, the waves are choppy and white capped.
Shawn and I are huddled under an umbrella as we approach the outside entrance to the Augustus Resort ballroom. Since the rain hasn’t stopped, it’s doubtful Shawn will be able to convince Matteo to meet me out in the rain. So… new plan. Nina scored me a plus-one ticket. I’ll just have to pretend to know a guest if anyone asks.
Shawn fidgets with the sleeve of her dress.
“Leave it alone,” I tell her, swatting her hand away. “It’s supposed to be like that.” She groans and tries to recenter before entering.
Even huddled under an umbrella, Shawn looks beautiful. She’s wearing a short, sky-blue dress with capped sleeves. Her long blond hair cascades over her shoulders in loose waves. She helped me get into my old homecoming dress, which luckily still fit, although a little tight.
My father was gone by the time we left; he didn’t leave a message. He must have taken off from the dock, and I hope that’s a good sign. Still, I wish he would have told me where he was going.
“My feet already hurt,” Shawn says.
