The hurricane was coming. Everyone in Figure Eight knew it, but no one seemed particularly concerned—not when there were galas to plan and appearances to maintain. From his bedroom window in their beachfront mansion, JJ Genrette watched the waves grow increasingly violent.
JJ's point of view
"Jackson!" Mama's voice carried up the stairs. "Rafe's here!"
i grabbed my leather jacket—designer, but deliberately scuffed to her constant dismay—and bounded down the curved staircase. Rafe was leaning against the kitchen island, chatting easily with Mom as she reviewed the patient files.
"There's my troublemaker," Mama smiled, her features so similar to my own it was like looking in a mirror aged forward twenty years. "The storm's getting worse. Stay at the Camerons' if you need to."
"Thanks, Dr. G," Rafe said, his hand finding its way to the small of my back as we headed for the door. I felt the warmth of his hand on my back, and I stepped out of his reach.
"And boys?" Mama called after them, her tone knowing. "Try not to break too many hearts today."
Outside, the wind was picking up, whipping my blonde hair into my eyes. It was annoying. Sarah was already waiting in Rafe's Range Rover, scrolling through her phone.
"Finally," she sighed. "The police scanner's going crazy. Something about a boat wreck near the Marsh."
"Probably those Pogues again," Rafe said, sliding behind the wheel. "Pope and his delivery runs."
I shifted uncomfortably. I have grown up watching the divide between Figure Eight and The Cut grow wider each year, watching kids like Pope and Kiara from a distance, wondering what life might have been like if I didn't have my mom or my grandfather. My father is kinda awful so we don't talk about him often.
"Speaking of Pogues," Sarah's voice turned serious. "Dad's been acting weird. Ever since that John B kid's dad disappeared."
"Big John was looking for something," Rafe said, turning onto the coastal road. "Dad never said what, but—"
A crack of thunder cut him off, and suddenly the sky opened up. Through the torrential rain, I could see police lights flashing near the marina.
"Turn here," I said suddenly, something pulling him toward the chaos.
"J, come on," Sarah protested. "We're supposed to be at the country club in twenty minutes."
But Rafe was already turning. They pulled into the marina parking lot just as Sheriff Peterkin was striding toward a group of deputies.
"Stay in the car," Rafe ordered, but I was already opening my door.' Yeah, I was not going to do that.'
The rain soaked through my expensive clothes as I approached the police line. Through the downpour, I could make out a familiar boat being pulled to shore—The Pogue. John B's boat.
"Jackson," my mother's voice cut through the storm. She was hurrying toward him, her medical bag in hand. "Sunshine, you shouldn't be here."
"Mama, what's going on?"
Before she could answer, Shoupe emerged from the group of deputies. "Dr. Genrette, we need you. Possible trauma case."
I watched my mother switch instantly into professional mode, following Shoupe toward an ambulance where a figure sat wrapped in a blanket—John B Routledge, looking half-drowned and completely shell-shocked.
"Get back to the car," she called over her shoulder. "We'll talk later."
But I couldn't move. Because through the rain, I spotted something glinting in the sand near the wrecked boat. Without thinking, I picked it up—a small gold compass, its face cracked but still intact.
Back in the Range Rover, Rafe and Sarah were arguing about being late to the club.
"Found this," I said quietly, showing them the compass.
Sarah's eyes widened. "That's Big John's. I remember it from when..."
"When Dad used to meet with him," Rafe finished.
The compass felt heavy in my hand like it was pulling me toward something bigger than their carefully ordered lives of charity galas and country club lunches.
"We should turn it in," Sarah said, but she didn't sound convinced.
"Or," I said, meeting Rafe's eyes in the rearview mirror, "we could figure out what Big John was looking for."
Thunder cracked again, closer this time, as if in a warning. But I could feel it—their perfect, predictable summer was about to become something else entirely.
"Your mom's still with John B?" Rafe asked, sliding a glass toward me.
I checked my phone. "Yeah. She texted saying she's helping Peterkin question him about the wreck." I didn't feel the need to mention her other text: *Something's not adding up, Star. Be careful.*
The front door opened, and Ward Cameron strode in, shaking rain from his suit jacket. He paused when he saw tus, his expression unreadable.
"Thought you kid would be at the club," he said carefully.
"Storm canceled the gala," Sarah replied, studying her father. "Dad, is John B okay?"
Ward's jaw tightened. "That boy needs to learn to stay away from things that don't concern him." He headed toward his study, then stopped. "JJ, tell your mother I appreciate her helping with the situation."
The moment Ward's study door closed, Sarah turned to them. "He knows something."
I pulled out the compass, its golden surface catching the lightning flashes from outside. "Big John gave me swimming lessons when I was a kid," I breathed a little uncombable. "Before... everything. Before Figure Eight decided The Cut wasn't good enough for us anymore."
Rafe moved closer, his hand finding my shoulder. "J, maybe we should—"
A loud crash from upstairs cut him off. We exchanged glances before heading toward the sound. It was coming from Ward's home office—his secondary workspace separate from his study.
"He never leaves it unlocked," Sarah whispered, but when she tried the handle, it turned.
The window was open, rain splattering onto expensive carpets. A figure in black hunched over Ward's desk, surrounded by scattered papers.
"Hey!" Rafe shouted.
The figure spun, and for a split second, I glimpsed familiar dark eyes—Kiara. She looked different from the girl who jogged past my house every morning, harder somehow.
Before any of them could move, she was out the window and down the trellis.
"That was—" Sarah started.
"Don't," I cut her off. "We didn't see anything." But my mind was racing. What was Kiara doing here? What was she looking for?
My phone buzzed—another text from My mom: *Coming home. Ward Cameron isn't telling the whole truth about the wreck. John B mentioned a key before they sedated him.*
my hand tightened around the compass in my pocket. Behind him, Rafe was calling security about the break-in, and Sarah was trying to organize the scattered papers. But something on Ward's desk caught my eye—a torn piece of paper with coordinates scribbled in Big John's messy handwriting.
"Guys," I said, reaching for it. "I don't think this was a random break-in."
Rafe ended his call, moving to look over my shoulder. Our fingers intertwined automatically, a gesture of comfort in the growing chaos. It made me feel more grounded.
"Those coordinates," Sarah said, peering at the paper. "They're for somewhere in the marsh."
Lightning illuminated the room, and in that flash, I saw something else—a photograph partially hidden under Ward's desk. I picked it up: Big John and Ward, standing on a boat, both looking young and carefree. But it was what they were holding that made my breath catch—a golden compass, identical to the one in his pocket.
"Sarah," I drawled, "what exactly did your dad and Big John do together?"
Before she could answer, headlights swept across the window. Ward's car was pulling up the drive.
"We need to go," Rafe said urgently. "Now."We hurried downstairs just as Ward entered through the garage. He was on the phone, his voice tight. "No, John B doesn't remember anything. Dr. Genrette made sure of that."
I froze on the stairs, my blood running cold. What had forced his mother to do that?
The compass seemed to burn in my pocket as we lipped out the front door into the howling storm.