“Thank you,” she said softly. “This is perfect.”
Josh watched as she spooned up some mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, then crumbled several Cheez-Its over it. She added a spritz of cheese before sticking the whole spoonful into her mouth. “You do know that’s disgusting, right?” Josh asked, looking amused.
“You mean delicious,” she replied, sending crumbs dribbling down her chin.
Josh shook his head. “There’s the model I know and love.”
Emerson started at the sound of that word. Josh was busy spraying cheese onto a Wheat Thin, completely oblivious to his word choice. But Emerson had heard it. The word rang through her head like an echo. Love. Love. Love.
It was the one word they’d never said, the one word she’d never said to any guy. It made her squirm with a mixture of exhilaration and fear. She had to tell him about the video. Before someone else did.
“Josh, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” She stood up abruptly, walking over to one of the windowed walls. Down below, the ocean rolled steadily toward the shore, waves rising and falling, rising and falling, as sure as breath. “I started seeing someone. After we broke up. It’s over now, but somehow someone got hold of a video of us and—”
“Whoa, Em. Hold on.” Josh came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pulled her close, letting her head rest against the crook of his neck. “Were we broken up when this happened?”
“Yes,” Emerson said quietly. She let herself rest against him, loving how solid he felt behind her. Not many guys were taller than she was, but Josh had a good three inches on her.
“Then let’s not worry about it, okay? All that matters is that we’re honest with each other now that we’re back together. Right?”
“Right!” It came out more forcefully than she’d intended, and she heard Josh chuckle.
“Good.” Josh kissed the top of her head. “You know how things were with my parents after my mom cheated on my dad. If it taught me anything, it’s how important honesty is in a relationship. More important than anything.”
“Honesty,” Emerson repeated. She kept her eyes on the waves below. Rising, falling, rising, falling.
She should tell him. Not just about the video, but the real reason she’d left New York that summer, the real reason she’d spent a year avoiding his calls and texts and e-mails.
She’d cheated. And then she’d run. And, worst of all, she’d lied.
But Josh’s arms were still around her waist, and he was kissing her neck now, and he smelled so good, new and familiar at the same time. And it really was in the past. It had taken her a year, but she’d finally put it behind her. There was no reason to dredge it back up. Josh was right: Now was what mattered.
“Should we go back to the blanket?” Josh whispered.
It was her last chance. She could grab him by the shoulders. She could force him to listen. But then he kissed her again, and it was so sweet, and so here, and suddenly the rest of it—the darer and all her mistakes—seemed miles away, a ghost from another life. When Josh lifted her up and carried her to the blanket, she didn’t say a word at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday, 4:30 PM
Relief flooded Sydney as she stopped outside the Fishing Hole Gallery & Bakery. She’d just spent an hour on the phone with Winslow’s college counselor, convincing her that the office had lost her scholarship application. It had taken about a thousand promises that Sydney really had handed the application in—and confirmation that the secretary had seen her do so—but, finally, the college counselor had agreed to call RISD tomorrow to work out an extension. For the first time since walking into school that morning, Sydney felt as if she could finally breathe.
She still had to finish redoing her application, of course. She’d spent the whole day working frantically to duplicate it. She’d dropped her digital memory cards off at the photo shop for a rush printing. She’d spent hours in her makeshift darkroom, redeveloping her nondigital images. And she’d redone her written application from memory. There was still more to do, but first she needed some fuel.
She grabbed a coffee and muffin at the bakery counter and took a seat in the back of the gallery. She plugged her phone in to charge. It was down to 10 percent battery for the third time that day, confirming her suspicion that her used phone was as old as cavemen.
She clicked on her e-mail, chugging down some coffee while her phone took a full minute to process the request. Finally, Joey’s message popped up, still unanswered. She took another sip before opening a reply.
Hey Joey,
It’s been crazy here to say the least. Maybe everyone drank the Kool-Aid, like you said. Do you ever actually miss it here? I used to think I wouldn’t, but then the other day, I was shooting photos down at Willow Pond, and I started thinking about how you and I used to play there when we were little. Standing there, hearing a breeze rustle the willow trees and smelling that unmistakable Echo Bay smell of salt air and concrete, I actually kind of felt… affection. It’s weird how a place can beat you down again and again, leave you bruised and battered, and still you can feel this unbreakable tie to it. One of the great mysteries of life. Or a sign I have attachment issues.
Anyway, thanks again for writing. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry every day for what happened.
Sydney
Sydney stared down at her words in surprise. They’d poured right out, as if they’d been inside her all along, just waiting for an escape. But she couldn’t actually send that. Could she? Joey barely knew her anymore, and she was pretty sure he didn’t like what he did know. Her finger skimmed the Delete button. It had felt so good to write it, to unclog her brain. She didn’t want to banish it to oblivion. Before she could change her mind, she hit Send.
She chugged more coffee before dumping the contents of her bag onto the table. Guinness’s packet was on top. She took a nervous scan of the gallery. The bakery counter was empty except for a lone employee. Watercolors of local settings sprinkled the walls, but the only viewers were a couple of tourists in matching Brooks Brothers outfits and the kind of canvas hats that screamed we’re not from here. There were no prying eyes, no one to watch her.
Satisfied, she began to pore through the packet again, hoping something new would jump out at her, a clue she’d missed the first time. But no matter how carefully she read, nothing more slunk out from between the lines. Kyla was being stalked, that much was clear. But the by whom was still a big question mark.
Sydney dropped her forehead onto the table with a soft bang. If only she could talk to Guinness. But he was still on lockdown in rehab: no phone, no computer. With a groan, she sat back up and returned the packet to her bag. Two photos were left on the table, the same two photos she’d been carrying around for days. Sydney laid them out side by side.
The first was the photo she’d stolen of Kyla’s destroyed boat float—the photo that had been missing from the file at the firehouse. The shot showed the solitary crater at the center of the float. Sydney had spent hours researching accidents, and over and over she’d drawn the same conclusion. There was only one thing that could create a clean, single hole like that: an explosive.
Kyla’s float had been in the middle of the ocean when it went up in flames. Which meant if the darer had thrown an explosive, it would have to have been from up on Dead Man’s Falls, Echo Bay’s expanse of cliffs.
Sydney turned to the second photo on the table. It was a stunning shot she’d captured of Echo Bay’s ghost lights. In the corner of the photo, right where the lights originated, there was a shadow—a shadow that looked a lot like a person. The shadow was standing on Dead Man’s Falls.
What if that shadow belonged to the darer? What if he or she had not only thrown an explosive at Kyla’s boat, but had been faking the ghost lights all along, too?
Sydney scraped her chair back. Adrenaline was suddenly pumping through her veins. She had to see the sight for herself. Maybe there was some kind of clue there. If she could just figure out who had been after Kyla, it could be the answer to all their questions.
Fifteen minutes later she was winding her car up the twisty, steep roads that lead to Dead Man’s Falls. She parked in the flattest area she could find. She’d have to make the rest of the trip on foot. She tucked the small bottle of pepper spray Tenley had bought each of them into her purse. Then she started up one of the narrow, bouldered paths that forked and crisscrossed as they ascended to the top of the cliffs. Sydney wavered as the path grew narrower. She could hear the ocean roaring at the edge of the cliff, and it struck her how easy it would be to just disappear up here. She shoved the thought away. She’d made it too far to turn back now.
The path twisted several more times before she reached the top. Down below, the ocean was a velvety blanket, silky and dark as it flapped in the breeze. Sydney breathed in the cool, salty air. She was standing in the very spot where she’d seen the shadow in her picture—the very spot where someone might have launched an explosive at Kyla’s float.
There was just one problem. Sydney’s gaze landed on a rock that jutted out in the distance. It was wide and crooked, and it stretched straight out over the ocean, like a bridge to nowhere. That rock would have served as a barricade. An explosive would have crashed into it long before it reached the ocean.