1
The muffled crash of surf slamming into rock isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the persistent buzzing as my phone vibrates in the cupholder. Gia probably. I was supposed to meet her and the rest of my friends—I check the clock on the dash—five minutes ago.
When I glance at the screen, it’s Rory calling instead.
I sigh and answer. “Beep. You’ve reached Wren Kensington. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you in an hour. Or in three days.”
My older sister huffs. “Since you hardly ever pick up, I listen to your voicemail almost every time I call you. You never set up a personalized message, Wren. It just reads off your number in a robotic voice.”
“How was I supposed to know that? I never call myself.”
Her exhale is pure exasperation.
Poor Rory. She’s one of those annoyingly perfect people you can’t even resent for being perfect because they’re also kind and thoughtful, and she got stuck withmeas ayounger sibling.
Rory is sophisticated and dependable, and I’m … well, I’m detoured next to a bluff because it’s been a boring Thursday so far.
“Where are you, Wren?” Rory asks wearily.
“Driving to get ice cream with friends.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re driving.”
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. “I pulled over to talk to you. I can’t hear anything in the convertible.”
Rather than commend me on my responsibility, Rory wonders, “What’sice creamcode for?”
“Want me to bring you back a scoop of cookie dough?” I offer innocently.
Another sigh from my sister. “Hanson invited us out on his boat tomorrow. We’re leaving Scarlett and Crew’s place at eight a.m. Mom wanted me to tell you, and you weren’t replying to my texts.”
“Eight?” I groan. “It’ssummer, Rory.”
“Come home and argue with Mom and Dad about it,” Rory states. “Don’t eat too muchice cream.”
She hangs up before I can refute her heavy skepticism.
To be fair, she’s right. Ice cream isn’t on tonight’s itinerary.
I huff, tossing my phone on the passenger seat before stepping out of my car. Briny wind whips through my hair, blowing strands across my face and obstructing my vision with a snarl of pink. Dyeing the bottom half of my blonde hair felt like a fun idea last week, but I’m already sick of it. Maybe I can squeeze in a trip to the salon after going out on Aunt Scarlett’s parents’ yacht in the morning.
My dress gets dropped on top of my phone. After a second of deliberation, I decide to leave my sandals behind too. They’re my favorite pair, and I don’t want to hike back up to retrieve them.
The rough asphalt feels strange beneath my bare feet. Cool, thanksto the branches shading this section of street, and scratchy. The cheerful pink from my latest pedicure is bright against the drab gray backdrop.
The road ends, transitioning to trampled grass. At least I know I’m probably in the right place based on the amount of foot traffic. The lifeguard made this spot sound like a local secret, but the worn path looks like it was recently trod by a traveling circus. Can’t bethatcovert.
Leafy green foliage surrounds both sides of the path and stretches high, creating a labyrinth effect. So far, the path ahead is perfectly straight. I can’t see the ocean yet, but I can hear it. Taste it, the tang of salt in the air coating my face and hair with stickiness.
My steps slow when I hear voices ahead.
I wasn’t expecting company, based on the lack of other cars where I parked, and I’m suddenly very aware I’m alone, wearing nothing except a swimsuit, with no phone. Even for me, that’s reckless.
A dozen feet ahead, the path veers left. I approach the curve carefully, a surge of adrenaline ratcheting my heart rate up to a rapid, concerning rhythm.
One of the voices sounds female, which reassures me a little. And thereisone woman, I discover, rounding the bend, but the rest are all men. Boys really. I’d guess they’re close to my age, in high school or possibly college. Their faces are unfamiliar. Their standard uniform is board shorts and baggy, sleeveless tees. A few are shirtless. Most are smoking.
Locals.
