I’ve got to leave.
For both our sakes.
Before long, theNarwhalcomes into view. We chug up alongside it, and I pull myself together while Lucky jumps over to check if it’s taking on water (it’s not) and if the engine starts (it does). And Mr. Karras is shouting out commands about cutting away the mooring lines attached to the scorched pier. ThenLucky’s piloting theNarwhalback to the harbor with his mother, and I’m stuck following behind them on the tugboat with Mr. Karras and my mother, Medusa: bitter woman-turned-monster.
Night falls as we motor into the harbor, its twinkling lights reflected on the dark water. And when we reach the Karrases’ boatyard, mooring the tugboat on one side of their small pier, and I’m finally able to step foot on civilized ground again, I’m hurting from the things Mom and I didn’t say to each other, and I’m anxious because Lucky and I went from being as close as we could possibly be to completely separated without any closure.
“Maybe it’s best that everyone cools off right now,” Kat suggests to my mom as we all drag ourselves across the creaking boards of the boatyard pier. “Everyone’s tired and stressed. We can talk about all of this tomorrow after we’ve had some rest.”
“Agreed,” Mom says.
I glance at Lucky. A few of hours ago, we were blissed out in each other’s arms. Now he looks as if he’s been swimming in the harbor for hours. Bone-weary. Defeated. Lost.
That’s how I feel too. I want to reach out and hold him, tell him everything will be okay—and for him to tell me the same. But all I can do is watch his beleaguered face over my shoulder as my mother escorts me out of the boatyard, away from the Karrases.
Through the dark side alley, past his vintage Superhawk.
Across the bumpy street, setts steaming and slick with the recent rain.
But when we get to our historic building, instead of heading around back to the rickety staircase to our apartment, we both stop in front of the Nook and stare at the front door.
It’s dark inside the bookshop—it’s been closed for a couple of hours. But there’s always a light on Salty Sally the bookish mermaid that can be seen from the street. Right now, it’s also shining on a large poster that’s been plastered over our shop’s door.
A photograph I’d recognize anywhere.
I’m sure Mom does too.
It’s a life-size enlargement of my mother’s nude photo.
My pulse lurches and pounds in my temples.
Mom’s cry is anguished and broken. She slaps a hand over her mouth before quickly looking around the sidewalk. It’s empty now, but a car slows as it passes and the driver gawks.
And that’s what snaps me into action. A little fury rises up in me. I quickly dig out my phone and flick on the camera.
“What are you doing?” Mom says, horrified. “You’re taking a picture of this?”
“We’ll need evidence when we sue.”
She raises her hands then drops them, utterly confused. Raindrops dot her cat-eye lenses. “Josie? Sue who?”
“Adrian Summers. Or maybe his father?” I don’t know how it works.
A strange sound burrs from Mom’s mouth. She just shakes her head in disbelief, ignores me, and races to the Nook’s door to snatch at the damp paper. It’s been plastered on with some kind ofthick glue, and the recent rain has made the paper one big sticker. “It’s not coming off!”
I scoot her over and reach for a corner of the poster, using my fingernail to scratch. She’s right. It’s fixed fast. It rips in places, but it’s not coming off in one piece. “It’s like wallpaper,” I tell I her. “Maybe that’s what was used. Wallpaper paste?”
“You might be right.” She’s able to peel off most of her nipples. “That’s a little better. What about the sticker remover gunk in the stockroom?”
“We’re almost out, but there’s a little left in one of the boxes under the counter. There’s a metal scraper, too, I’m pretty sure.” Maybe some of the chemicals I use to develop my photos … “We’ll find something. Come on.”
Her hands are shaking so badly, she drops her store keys, so I pick them up and unlock the door, punching in the security code when we step inside. Then I grab some sticky notes from the register, quickly stick as many of them as I can over the remainder of the poster, and shut off the outside light. A temporary fix, but it buys us some time.
Mom turns on a tiny work lamp near the register; the only other illumination comes from the redEXITsign above the stockroom and streetlights shining through the windows, along with the occasional car headlights. She pulls out a box and slams it on the counter, then proceeds to rifle through it angrily.
“Why would Adrian Summers have one of my modeling photos from college?” she asks in a tight voice.
“No clue,” I say. “But he had it on his phone at the party that night Lucky and I got taken to the police station. He thinks it’s me.”
