Page 69

69

ALLISON

T here’s something magical about lazy afternoons by the water.

I’m curled up in a lounge chair with a cold drink, oversized sunglasses, and my bare feet propped on Connor’s lap.

He’s in board shorts, a backward hat, and wearing a look of pure concentration as he tries to untangle Gram’s floating flamingo cooler from a nest of beach towels.

I sip my drink, trying not to laugh. “You look very heroic right now.”

He looks up, squinting. “This flamingo is judging me.”

“He’s seen things.”

“He caused things.”

Connor finally rips the velcro apart and holds the cooler up triumphantly, like it’s a newborn lion. I clap lazily and raise my glass in his direction.

It should feel perfect. And it almost does.

The breeze is warm. The sky is blue. Gram is off somewhere “bargaining” with a street vendor for a fake Rolex and flirting with a man who sells keychains made of seashells and broken dreams.

Everything should feel light.

But there’s a thread of unease curling in my chest.

Maybe it’s the way Connor keeps glancing toward the boardwalk.

Maybe it’s the tightness in his shoulders he tries to pretend isn’t there.

Maybe it’s the fact that Peyton is in Key West—and disappeared when Connor saw her. Like she’s running from something or someone.

And thought we searched for her, we didn’t find her.

I pull my sunglasses off and study him. “Hey.”

He looks up, all sea-salt and suspicion. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

His expression softens, but something’s still buried there. Something tense. “Just keeping my eyes open.”

I reach across and thread my fingers through his. “You always do.”

For a moment, that’s enough.

We sit in silence, waves crashing in the distance, the flamingo cooler bobbing gently in the shallows beside us.

Then Connor’s phone buzzes.

He checks the screen—and his eyes narrow.

I sit up straighter. “Everything okay?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stands, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Let’s head back to the bungalow,” he says casually. Too casually. There’s steel in his tone.

I don’t like it.

My stomach twists in a warning.

Something’s wrong.