I can’t make you keep your word about this, but I hope you do.” Then he turns and starts walking away. I contemplate following him, because I have plenty more questions, and he owes me some answers. But in the end I retrace my steps toward Dunes, heading inside to the only person currently on the island who’s related to me.
I’m halfway there when something warm and soft materializes in my hand, and I turn to see Jonah North in a T-shirt, shoving his flannel at me.
“For the walk home,” he says, before disappearing back into the shadows.
* * *
—
The next night I’m still preoccupied, waiting tables in Veranda on autopilot. I’d lifted my phone a dozen times today to text my mother: Jonah is a fake! But I didn’t do it. I told Aubrey—who was almost comically shocked—but so far, that’s it. I’m not sure what’s stopping me. Except, maybe, that I can’t untell the truth once it’s out.
Luckily, I’m not busy tonight. Head of hospitality Carson Fine is supervising the dining room, and he’s been insisting I get lengthy breaks between tables because I’m so new. Although I think his real reason is that he wants to gossip with me at the bar.
We’re sitting there now, his chin in his hands as he peppers me with questions about Mildred. “So you never met her at all before last weekend?” he asks. Tonight, his tie is patterned with bright-pink seashells against a purple background.
“Never,” I say. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. The Story kids’ disinheritance isn’t a secret. Every time Mom or her brothers tried to claim their legal right to some of my grandfather’s fortune, they had to release more details about how they’d been cut off.
“It’s all so gothic,” Carson says, in a tone of hushed awe. “And so strange. Mrs. Story couldn’t be lovelier to her employees and people around town. Why would she be so ruthless with her own children?”
That’s the one part of the story Google can’t tell you, and Carson is clearly hoping that I can. “No idea,” I say. “We’ve never known.”
He visibly deflates. “Well, at least she brought you here. That’s something.”
“And then she took off.” That can’t have escaped Carson’s notice, and maybe I can use his avid curiosity to my advantage. The longer Mildred goes without contacting us, the more convinced I am that there’s something off about this entire summer. And it all started with a letter telling us to coordinate with Edward Franklin.
“I wonder if we might’ve gotten our dates mixed up.” I deliver the lie with a faintly perplexed smile, draining the last of my water. Marty, Veranda’s bartender, appears out of nowhere to refill my glass. Everyone at Gull Cove Resort is under the impression that my cousins and I have some sort of pull with Mildred, so we get better service than the guests. “I was thinking about touching base with Edward Franklin to double-check, but the only contact information I have for him is his resort email address.” I wait a couple of beats, like I’m lost in thought. “I don’t suppose you have, like, a personal email on file, do you? Or a phone number?”
“I’m sure we do,” Carson says, flicking a strand of white-blond hair off his forehead. “But I can’t give it to you. Privacy laws and all that.”
“Right,” I say, crestfallen. I’m debating whether I can convince him to trade the information for some sort of salacious, made-up Story gossip, when Carson’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and frowns at the screen.
“Hmm, they need me out front for something. Be right back.”
I watch him wind his way through the dining room until Marty clears his throat. I hadn’t realized he was still standing there. “Hey, if you want to reach Edward, you could maybe try Chaz,” he says.
I wrinkle my brow. “Why would I try Chaz?”
“He and Edward were a couple for a while. They might still be in touch.”
“Ah, okay,” I say, absorbing that. It hadn’t occurred to me that Chaz was gay. Or dating. He seemed eager to get off the subject of his love life the one time we’d touched on it. “Thanks, I’ll check with him. Is he working tonight, do you know?”
“No. Sick day. He’ll probably be sick for a while, if you know what I mean,” Marty says, miming tipping a bottle to his lips.
“Oh no.” It hasn’t escaped my notice how much liquor Chaz