basically stalked my cousin since she broke up with him.
Adrian Summers is not a nice person.
So why am I sick to my stomach right now?
Why would I even entertain any single thing he told me about Lucky?
He must be lying.
I just don’t know why.
And that’s what’s eating away at me while Mom and I leave the Marblecliff with Evie. The three of us are heading back to the above-shop apartment while Aunt Franny keeps the resort suite for a few days, until she can catch up on her jet-lagged sleep and figure out what to do about her rented-out house.
I should be happier to be going back to the apartment. And I am. Relieved, utterly and completely. But I’m also stressed by Grandma’s meddling and trying to figure out a counter plan for what she did about the window.
And.
I can’t get Adrian’s stupid text unstuck from my brain.
A horse-drawn carriage carting two tourists clops past the Pink Panther as we idle by a brick building covered in vines of blooming flowers. Early August heat is making me crankier, and even with all the windows rolled down, we still can’t catch a breeze.
“Victory Day is next week,” Mom says, ducking her head to see the vertical banners on the gas streetlamps. That means one big last influx of tourists before the end of summer. “Guess they didn’t have flotilla celebrations in Nepal.”
Bet they didn’t have copy shops to print giant nude photos, either. Ugh. I’m just sick with worry and having a low-level panic attack because I just can’t stop thinking about why Adrian would say that Lucky gave him my mother’s photo.
Why?
Because my grandmother talked to his father and told him to back off the Karrases and rein in his boy. That’s the logical reason, right? One last act of revenge against me.
But the thing is, he didn’t sound mad. He wasn’t threatening me or angry. I look back over the texts to be sure, and yeah. He sounds sad about Evie. And he said he’s sorry. I can’t tell if that’s genuine regret or one of those warning signs from an abusive partner the day after they did something terrible. It’s a text, so I can’t read his body language or pick up on some of the clues he might leave if I talked to him in person. When it’s a text, it’s hard to tell … I think. I’m not sure. I wish I was more certain.
And here’s what else is bothering me: I’ve been wrong about everything. What makes me so sure I haven’t been wrong about this, too?
Because now that I’m thinking about it … Lucky was really curious about my father. He mentioned that he’d read things about him. He knew things from articles online. Gossip about child support—he definitely had kept up with my father.
If he was poking around online, looking up things about my father, it’s not outrageous to think that perhaps, just maybe, he might have come across one of my mom’s photos in some kind of photography forum somewhere.
Maybe it started innocently enough, poking around online. How it got to Adrian, I don’t know. Macho stupid drunken boys’ night? He was at the Golden party that night, after all.
Did he feel bad about it?
Guilty.
Guilty enough to take the fall for me about the window.
No.
That’s impossible. I’m mad at myself for even thinking it. And yet …
Mom and Evie are talking about the upcoming Victory Day flotilla across the front seat of the Pink Panther as we head into the South Harbor, passing a line of people waiting to get inside a Revolutionary War–themed wax museum. But I can barely hear them over the rapid thump of my heart. I clutch my purse in my lap so hard, I feel the contents shift inside and have to force my fingers to unclench.
Guilty enough to take the fall.
We turn on our street. Pass Manny’s clam shack and the doughnut shop. Evie is talking about Grandma’s surprise condo.
Guilty, guilty, guilty.
“Stop the car!” I shout.
Mom slams on the brakes. A truck behind us honks, and my mother steers toward the curb, narrowly avoiding being rear-ended. “Josie—what the hell?”
“I have to take care of something,” I say, jumping out of the car and looking for a break in the traffic to cross over to the boatyard. “I’ll meet you at home later. I’m sorry. It’s important. Life-or-death relationship important.”
Ignoring my mom’s complaints, I race across the bumpy street when I get the chance and stride down