“Whales,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothing. You really think they’re fine?”
“I think that if I had to be stuck on a sailboat in a storm with anyone, I’d pick Cap. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s good under pressure. And Wade is … well, he’s probably not being helpful, but at least Cap has a second set of hands and someone to talk to. They’ll be fine.”
I nod, more reassured than I was talking to Dusty. We’re talking about Gus’s two best friends. If he’s calm, I must be overreacting.
But then two things happen. One, thunder rumbles in the distance, menacing and ominous. Two, the marina’s exterior lights turn on, determining it’s darkened enough for them to be necessary, and I see that Gus is white-knuckling the railing.
“I should go talk to Dusty,” he tells me, turning and heading toward the building behind us.
I slide my phone out with clammy fingers. It’s seven thirty, almost two hours after Sawyer said he’d be back. Will they stay out there all night, waiting the storm out?
The screen is slick, even though it was in my pocket. My clothes are nearly soaked through.
Still no reply from Sawyer, although I’ve stopped expecting his name will show up. He doesn’t have service, or his phone is dead, or both.
I call my dad, and he doesn’t answer. He’s away on another business trip—I forget where—and apparently unreachable.
So, I call the one other person who might be able to help. My last name means I have more than money at my disposal.
He answers on the second ring. “Arthur Kensington.”
I suck in a deep breath. “Hi, Grandpa. It’s Wren.”
A stunned pause follows. At least, I’m assuming surprise is the reason for his hesitation. I don’t think I’ve ever called my grandfather directly before. Dad’s the one who normally reaches out on Grandpa’s birthday or holidays and then passes the phone around to the rest of us.
“Hello, Wren,” he finally says. “How are you?”
“Right now, not so good.”
“No?” His tone sharpens. “What’s wrong?”
“I need a favor. I-I’m working at the Atlantic Yacht Club this summer.”
“Yes. Hanson mentioned it.” Grandpa’s tone is dry, and I’m assuming his reaction was less supportive than Dad’s.
“I’ve made some friends, working here, and a couple of them took a boat out earlier. There’s a bad storm, and I was just wondering if you … knew anyone who might be able to help. No one here is doing much.”
“For a few kids who neglected to check the weather report? I’m hardly surprised.”
I swallow hard. “Please. I’m asking … as your granddaughter.”
“Is one of these ‘friends’ a boy named Sawyer Bennett?”
It’s a shock, hearing Grandpa say his name. My parents don’t know it. Rory doesn’t know it. And I’m a lot closer with my immediate family than my grandfather.
“Yes.”
“The same Sawyer Bennett my personal attorney was tasked with defending in an assault case?”
Shit. I didn’t ask Rory any questions about who she was calling, figuring she would know best, and it never occurred to me the lawyer might have some connection to my grandfather.
“He wasn’t charged.”
“He wasn’t innocent either. I reviewed the file myself. An underage bar fight, captured on security footage, with plenty of eyewitnesses, I believe.”
