“Tell Nate not to get drunk.”
“That’s asking a lot.”
“Tell him anyway.”
The line went dead.
I lowered the burner phone and stared at it for a second before sliding it into the pocket of my linen shorts.
Linen shorts.
If my old self could see me now, he’d put me down out of mercy.
Nate appeared beside me with two more Pacíficos and a grin that said he had seen too much and planned to weaponize all of it.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Shit’s hot.”
“Shit’s always hot. That’s why we’re in Mexico.”
I gave him a look.
He handed me a beer. “Actual answer.”
“JD flipped the table. Got evidence on the girls. Group chats, videos, Snapchats, grave camera. They defaced Mandy’s grave more than once, and this time they got caught.”
Nate’s grin disappeared.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“Destiny know?”
“Not yet.”
“Regan?”
“Regan knows everything.”
Nate nodded solemnly. “The general.”
I twisted the cap off the fresh bottle.
Nate leaned against the umbrella pole and followed my gaze.
Destiny was walking out of the pool now, water sliding down her legs, her hair slicked back, bruises fading but not gone. She reached for her towel and wrapped it around herself, then looked our way like she could feel the conversation tugging at her.
I forced myself to look at the ocean.
Nate sighed.
“Brother.”
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t even said anything.”
