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“Of course.” As he slips his wallet from his back pocket, he nods toward me. “Why don’t you head out to the car, get it cooled down, while I finish checking out.” The object he hands me doesn’t look like a key, at all, but a folded up pocket knife, or something, with a leather strip down the center that reads Chiron. On the back is a lock and unlock button, but no key. “There’s a button on the dash to start it up. Just don’t go taking off anywhere.”

“No promises,” I say, backing toward the door. “Take care, Rhea.”

Brow quirked, she smiles. “You too, Miss Izzy.”

Once outside of the bookshop, I shield my eyes against the blinding sunlight that beats down on my shoulders as I make my way to the car. Hot leather stings my bare skin when I fall into the seat, and my hips thrust me away from it as I awkwardly press the start button for the engine. Tugging my dress down pulls at its neckline, exposing more cleavage, but I refuse to burn my legs again. I roll down the window as the still-warm air blasts from the vents.

Once again, I find myself staring down at the bracelet on my arm, and I smile.

“Oh, look, the asylum must’ve had a field trip for psychopaths.” The sound of the familiar female voice outside the window skates down my spine, and I can’t bring myself to look up and face Brady’s mother.

Weeks after the incident at the party, she went out of her way to smear mine and Kelsey’s name through the mud, making us out to be two reckless delinquents, hooked on all variety of drugs. Because her husband is chair and commissioner of the entire island, something she likes to make clear to everyone, she’s taken it upon herself to bully anyone she deems a threat.

For whatever reason, it seems I’m still her target.

On reflex, I open my mouth to say something, but cap it. I’m not getting in trouble for this woman. I refuse.

I finally lift my gaze just enough to see her and another woman sitting around a small table, just outside the ice cream shop next door to Rhea’s.

The woman across from her, who I’m guessing is her best friend Joan, turns her head to look back at me, pausing to lick the double-scoop dripping down her thumb. “Is that who I think it is?”

Casting my gaze from theirs, I contemplate whether, or not, to roll the window up. What the hell is taking Lucian so long?

“Who else would dress like a whore to visit a bookshop?” The derision in her voice sounds more like jealousy, perhaps brought on by the fancy car, than that of a mother looking out for her son.

I’m anxious to pull the front of the dress up to hide the cleavage she can likely spot from where she’s sitting, and I want more than anything to look up and say something. Say something, my head urges, but neither my limbs, nor brain, will act at my command, the silent warning of the last time I spoke up paralyzing my vocal chords.

“Her aunt works at the bar, right? Chatty one who reeks like smoke all the time?” Joan’s voice is louder than before, as if she wants me to hear her.

“Yeah. That’s her. Brutish one everyone calls Butch.”

The car door swings open, and I snap my focus toward Lucian, who slides the package down alongside my legs onto the floor.

Their chasing cackles don’t seem to have snagged his attention yet. Meanwhile, my fingers twitch with the prodding of my head to climb out of this car and stand up to this wretched bitch who made my life hell for all those months. But I can’t. Partly because of the dress I’m wearing that, in truth, makes me feel out of my element. A fake and a phony. The other part is because my mouth has gotten me in trouble before.

Ignore them, I can hear Aunt Midge telling me, as she always did. Which is weird, because she never ignored them herself. In fact, she got into a yelling match with Brady’s mom a few months back, when the woman accused me of being in a satanic cult. Probably based on how I was dressed at the time.

But for whatever reason, Aunt Midge insisted that I ignore them.

I suddenly wish we were back at Blackthorne, in the dark gloom where I felt shielded from all of this. It’s no wonder Lucian’s family never really venture out much. Why would they subject themselves to an entire island of ignorance and judgment?

“How much you think he’s paying her?” Joan snorts, and both women giggle at her remark. “Enough to fund another tattoo?”

Finger on the ignition button, he stills, his expression hardening, and he sits forward in his seat like he’s starting to catch on. He stares through the windshield. I wait for him to start the damn car and get out of here before I do something stupid, but instead, he opens the driver door.

I grab him by the arm and, gaze lowered, shake my head. “Trust me, retaliation doesn’t work with them. It only adds fuel.” It’s true. The last time I volleyed insults back at her, I found myself sitting across from a police officer over some harassment accusation she made up. “Let’s just go.”

“They’re talking about you?” he asks, his hand still on the door handle.

“Maybe. Maybe not, though.”

“Only whores tattoo themselves! Whore!” Brady’s mother calls out to us, the target of her insult unmistakable as she stares right at me.

Lip caught between my teeth, I bite back the urge to scream, and screw my eyes shut to the visual of her choking on that goddamn ice cream cone.

“Fuel meet fire.” Lucian climbs out, and every muscle in my body pulls tight as I watch him round the vehicle toward the women.

With the window still rolled down, I can hear snippets of their whispers, as Lucian approaches.