value of the land, get people to stop using it as a park.”
“Well, like I said, I don’t know if there’s any proof that Scott Nash is behind that,” Deacon replied. “But I do know that he’s an ass, and no, I didn’t vote for him. But most people in Adair don’t share your views of the Nash family—”
“Or they’re too scared of reprisal to say what they really think.”
“—and considering there’s been a Nash in local government since time immemorial, it’s not really all that surprising.”
“I still don’t see how more people don’t hate him.”
“Because most people didn’t go to high school with him, and don’t share your weird vendetta?” Em offered.
“It’s not a weird vendetta. The guy tried to frame me for arson. Not to mention the fact that he bullied half of my class into submission.”
“Well, that’ll explain the voting, then,” Deacon pointed out. “If people are still as scared of him as you say, they probably felt like they had to vote for him. And if you’re not personally affected by the chicanery Lyles & Blackstone has pulled to force residents off the island, the development probably sounds like a good deal.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “People are so fucking short-sighted. Don’t they realize this is just another step in pricing locals out of their own homes?”
“Connor, you don’t have to convince us.” Deacon held his hands up. “We’re all on the same side here.”
Maybe. Okay, probably. But I still couldn’t help feeling like people, my family included, weren’t taking Scott Nash’s serious shittiness seriously enough.
As far as I was concerned, learning that Scott Nash supported turning McIntyre Beach into luxury condos was all the proof you needed that he was behind the vandalism, too. He’d never been afraid to break the rules to get what he wanted.
But, much as it annoyed me to admit it, Deacon was right that Scott had half the island eating out of the palm of his hand, and the other half too scared to open up their mouths. I might not need more proof that Scott was up to some shit, but the rest of the island would. And the first step in getting that proof was seeing the beach for myself.
I glowered into the darkness as Roxie and I walked along the county road that led out to McIntyre Beach later that night. Well, as I walked, and Roxie zigzagged, her nose continually taking her off into the brush on the side of the road. I’d had to pull her out of three people’s yards already.
It had been easy to take walks like this when I was in high school, before I had a dog. I’d started when my mom got sick. My dad was spending all his time in the hospital with her, Deacon was hardly around, and Em was too young to lean on. I used to go out at night and just walk for miles, until I was tired enough to sleep.
That was when I discovered McIntyre Beach. I would come out to the beach night after night and let the roar of the waves fill my ears until it drowned out all the voices that told me my mom was going to die, and left a calm sort of emptiness in its wake.
My mom got better, unexpectedly, during my junior year of high school. And then she died, also unexpectedly, the summer after it. In a car accident. With my dad.
That was when I started breaking into people’s houses on my walks.
I knew it was wrong. Let’s be clear about that. I did it because it was wrong.
Because it felt like it evened out the hypocrisy and bigotry we got from family after family in the wake of my parents’ death. People blathering about, ‘God’s plan,’ and, ‘a reason for everything,’ in one breath, then telling me I was going to hell for liking boys in the next.
Each house I snuck into, I took something. Never something large or valuable, or anything that looked like an heirloom. But something just important enough for the owners to notice it was missing.
I wanted to unsettle people. To make them lose sleep. Wanted them to feel a fraction of what I’d felt for so long.
And honestly, I did it because it was the only thing that made me feel something other than an aching emptiness. Loss had hollowed out my insides like a cave.
It had been on one of those nighttime walks that I talked to