3:30 a.m.
As Billy maneuvered the tender to the side of the boat where a ladder dangled into the water, his heart skipped in his chest. The Sea Witch was a thirty-eight-foot Bali Catsmart, which made it one of the most luxurious and comfortable sailboats in the world, and Billy knew it was stocked with more booze and a better sound system than every bar on Pelican Island.
Nothing was better than waking up on that boat, when the sun rose over the water, and the whole sky looked like one of those paintings he saw in Musée d’Orsay when his family went to Paris last winter.
Some of his fondest memories took place aboard the ship, like when they sailed to Bermuda last June or when they took it up to Martha’s Vineyard and stayed at his grandparents’ estate for the entire month of August. His dad always talked about taking a trip, just the two of them, up to Canada to go oyster farming. Maybe next summer, they’d finally do it.
Billy tied up the tender and swung his leg up onto the ladder, climbing aboard with ease. He made his way to the bar cart, splashed whatever was in the crystal decanter into a glass, and chugged half of it in one swig. The liquor burned, but Billy didn’t care. He already felt better.
Soon he would cross the flybridge, go downstairs to one of the cabinsand pass out face-first on the bed, only waking when the sun peeked through the porthole. But for now, Billy sprawled out on one of the couches, the cushions damp with sea spray.
He was so peaceful here. So utterly—
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Billy sat up but he did so too quickly and thought he was looking at the person in front of him through a kaleidoscope, four versions of them moving in sync with one another. It was only when he blinked that he realized he was looking right at only one person. His father.
Lucy
Olivia picks up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Hi,” I say, breathless as I bike away from Erica’s house. Her voice is sweet, almost melodic in my earbuds. “Are you at home?”
Olivia pauses and for a moment, but then says, “Yeah. What’s up?”
There’s so much I could say:I think your uncle might be dangerous. Where was he the night of Billy’s death?But there’s only one question I can ask that will allow me to get to all of the other ones.
“Can I come over for a bit?”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, turning down French Moor Drive. “I’m around the corner.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. Olivia rattles off the code to get through their gate, and pretty soon, I’m on the Godwin property, the enormous brick house rising up from the earth with views of the water flanking either side.
I hop off my bike and walk it the rest of the way, but the path from the driveway to the pool house is longer than I remember, and I count my steps, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other to get there. I don’t dare look back at the main house, where Mr.Godwin may be inside. When I reach the door, I raise my hand to knock, but it swings open before my fist makes contact.
“Hey!” Olivia says brightly. Instead of welcoming me inside, she steps out into the night and looks up. “I forgot how amazing the sky is here,” she says tilting her head back. “I’ve barely looked up since I’ve been here. A tragedy, really.”
“It is,” I say, but I keep my focus on what I’m here for. Answers. Information. Nothing else. Except it’s hard to focus. Olivia looks more relaxed than she has all summer, wearing a sleeveless top and jean shorts, and her long hair is wavy, falling down her shoulders. No makeup, no hair accessories, just a thin gold chain around her neck, and up close like this, I can see she’s got a handful of freckles sprinkled on her shoulders.
“Wanna go to the beach?” she asks. “See if we can find a shooting star or something equally cringe?” Olivia grabs a blanket from an Adirondack chair.
“Perfect.”
The night breeze makes my curls swirl around my face as we walk in silence down the narrow pathway. I kick off my sandals, my toes sinking into the sand. The Godwins’ stretch of waterfront is wider than ours, with a dock jutting out from the land, a tender tied to one of the posts in the water.
Olivia lays out the blanket, and together we secure its corners with rocks and pieces of driftwood. It’s a small square of fabric, and she drops down first, patting the space beside her even though it’s tiny. My stomach leaps into my throat, but I stretch my body out next to hers, so close that our flanks touch, our bare thighs, the outsides of our knees all connected in one line.
I’m thinking about how to phrase what’s in my head, how to sayDid your uncle kill his son?But that’s when she speaks.
“You can say what’s on your mind, you know.”
I glance sideways at her but decide to keep looking up at the sky. It’s easier this way. “Do you have any idea who killed Billy?”
Olivia flutters her lips. “No,” she says. “No clue.”
“You don’t have any theories? You were at that party. It sounded like things got intense.”
