The words circle above my head. Beau has deputized his best friend to negotiate a truce.
I want to ask whether Beau told Marcus anything about Redwood, but Marcus is risking something by showing me this. I can’t let my anger with Beau spill over.
At least I have one answer—Beau didn’t strangle Gemma. He couldn’t have. Relief sweeps through me at that revelation.
Part of me wants to stay angry, but I can’t shake the question Nora asked me last night.
What do you want to happen next?
I want Beau. I want the answers he’s hiding, and I want them to not be so treacherous that they tear us apart. Because I want our life together. The lazy mornings and the way he can turn everything into something fun. I want his smile. I wanthim.
And wanting all that means I’ll have to face whatever he’s keeping in the dark.
Chapter 29
On my drive home to talk to Beau, the storm is already making itself known with meteorological tantrums. Outer bands sweep through in sudden, slanted bursts of wind and rain. The lakes are choppy, too. Like the water knows something is coming.
By the time I pull onto Isle of Sicily, the rain has stopped, but there’s an eerie air to the lull. The low, restless cloud cover grays the midafternoon sky.
Central Florida is often spared the brunt of storms. But models for this one show Hurricane Gavin making landfall as a Category 5 hurricane, ripping right through the center of the state and cutting a straight line up toward Georgia. By the time it reaches Winter Park, models have it weakening to a Category 3 storm, with winds well above a hundred miles an hour.
All of this, and Tippy Schaeffer is still out for some kind of hot-girl walk, athleisure-clad and ponytail bouncing. As if a hurricane could slow down the resistance training regimes around here.
She must see me as I pull onto our street, because she’s waving for me to stop. I’m tempted to ignore her and speed up, but then, she pretends like she’s going to step right in my path, laughing as she pantomimes.
I’m hanging on by a thread, Tippy. Don’t threaten me with a good time.
“Hi, honey!” she calls with a wave.
“Hey, Tippy.” I try to find some enthusiasm as I roll my window down.
If she notices that my mind is elsewhere, she doesn’t let on as she says, “I’m on my way to Ford’s. He and Shep bumped into each other at the club this morning, and they decided we should have a little hurricane party.”
I frown. “A hurricane party?”
“They figured we could all blow off a little steam after a day of storm prep.”
“Sounds fun,” I mutter, not meaning it.
But I’m not sure I’m welcome at Ford’s house after Ms. Dowling caught me breaking in.
“So you’ll come?”
I grip the wheel and make some kind of noncommittal gesture with my hand.
Tippy must only see the answer she wants, because she’s already clapping and bouncing on her toes. “Yay! Hey, can I ride with you?” She doesn’t wait for me to agree before she rounds the hood of my car and climbs into the passenger seat. “This humidity is doing a number on my flyaways.”
I force a smile, but inside I’m screaming.
Am I a hurricane party hostage now?
By the time I pull into my garage, she hasn’t stopped talking about her hair, and I’m wondering if it’s too late to fake a migraine. But she’s already out of the car, breezing toward my kitchen door like she owns the place.
“Shep said everyone’s out back in the outdoor living room,” she calls, as if I’ve agreed to any of this.
And just like that, I’m swept along with her, through my own house and onto my pool deck. The sky outside is a deep-bruise purple. Wind is tugging palm trees into a lean, and the air buzzes with that strange electric pressure that always comes before a storm breaks.
From next door, I can tell that a party is already under way. The sound hits me first. Laughter and music carry through the humid air.
