Page 128 of High Season

“Tam? Tam, say something.”

She lifted her head.

“I’m sorry. But I can’t let you do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“The pictures. I’m going to send them to Hannah. And to Cordelia. They have a right to know they exist, to know what you did.”

With this, fear darted through Blake. He thought that Tamara might tell Hannah, might even tell Cordelia. But now, he realized that his sister had the ability to destroy him.

“Tamara.” He leaned toward her. “Give me the phone.”

She stood, holding it at arm’s length away from him. Like they were children again, fighting over a toy.

“No.”

“Tam, don’t be stupid.”

They were not acting the way he had hoped they would, the sleeping pills he had dissolved into Tamara’s drink. They had taken effect on Hannah so quickly. She had been dopey within five minutes, unconscious in fifteen. Shouldn’t Tamara have at least been dizzy by now? He should have been able to slip the phone away from her, to delete the pictures while she was still woozy. But his sister stood, her legs planted firmly on the ground, the phone tight in her grip. Wholly alive, and strong, and certain.

“I’m not being stupid,” she said. “I’m doing the right thing, Blake.”

She stepped back, the phone held out of his reach.

“I’m not going to fight you on this,” she said.

But really, she did not have a choice.

Because this, for Blake, was a fight for his life. For the life that he had always wanted, a life that he was so close to achieving.

He lunged at his sister, grasping hold of her arm. She staggered back, shocked. He was stronger than her, and an inch taller. He had been born first. He had existed for thirteen whole minutes in this world without her. Thirteen minutes that would always be the difference between him and her.

He wrenched the phone from her hand, tearing it away triumphantly.

He did not mean to push her.

He had only meant to press his hand against the center of her chest to keep her away. To stop her from wrestling the phone back from him.

He did not mean for her foot to catch on the low stone border that ringed the terrace. Did not mean for her to stagger backward, dangerously close to the edge.

As one arm reached out, he meant, perhaps, to save her. Her arms flailed, and their eyes met, hers wide, pleading.

He had not meant for this to be the last time he looked at his sister and saw her looking back.

Briefly, stupidly, Blake was reminded of a magic trick he had seen at one of their end-of-term balls at boarding school. Tamara had volunteered and had been folded into a glittering, person-sized box. The lights had gleamed, the box opened, and Tamara was gone. She refused to tell Blake how the trick had worked afterward, had only tapped the side of her nose, whispering that it must have been magic.

And now, as Blake watched, she disappeared again. One moment she was there, balanced, one foot still on the terrace’s edge. And then, she was gone. Only empty space where his sister had stood. Only the air. The sky. The sea.

He dived toward the edge after her. His feet skittered against the stone, stopping just short of where Tamara had fallen. Below them, he saw the pool. Tamara. For just a second, he felt a wash of relief. She had landed in the water. She would be alright.

Then, he saw the dark bloom that came from her head. The blood, almost black against the pale blue of the pool, dissipating into the water. He saw the streak of red on the side of the pool, a mess of something that must have come from his sister’s skull. The way that she was facedown. Unmoving.

Later, he would think back to that moment. He would go over and over those few unthinking seconds. That half breath when he should have turned and run downstairs. When maybe—just maybe—he could have saved his sister.

But Blake stayed still. He stood, his fists clenched, looking down at the water. The blood. Tamara.

And in that moment, Blake felt an unexpected sweep of peace. Hisfears of a few minutes ago were gone, and for a fraction of a second, something terrible crossed Blake’s mind. Something that, although he would never tell anyone, he would always remember thinking: