The morning after the storm, Figure Eight looked almost untouched—as if money itself had kept the hurricane at bay.
I sat at our kitchen island, watching Mom make her signature hangover cure smoothie. Neither of them had slept much.
"Are we going to talk about what you did to John B.?" I finally asked.
Mom's hands stilled on the blender. "Baby, sometimes being a doctor means—"
"Means what? Sedating someone for Ward Cameron?"
Before she could answer, the doorbell rang. Through the frosted glass, I could see Rafe's silhouette. Mom's expression softened with relief at the interruption.
"We're not done talking about this," I warned, grabbing my jacket—the compass still hidden in its pocket.
Rafe was lounging against his Range Rover, looking unfairly good for someone who'd been up all night. "Sarah's with Topper," he said as a greeting. "They're a thing now."
"Since when?"
"Since about two hours ago when she decided dating the most boring guy in Figure Eight was better than dealing with whatever the hell we saw last night."
They drove in silence toward the marina, both lost in thought. The coordinates from Ward's office were burning a hole in my phone, along with dozens of unanswered texts from Sarah about her sudden relationship status change.
The marina was bustling with post-storm activity. Rich people assessing damage to their boats, insurance adjusters making notes. And there, by The Wreck restaurant, were Pope and Kiara, deep in conversation.
"That's not suspicious at all," Rafe muttered, parking far enough away to observe.
I watched as Kiara handed something to Pope—a piece of paper that looked remarkably like what she'd stolen from Ward's office.
"We should tell my dad," Rafe said, but I could tell his heart wasn't in it.
"Like he told anyone about Big John?" I pulled out the compass. "Something bigger is happening here, Rafe. And I think Sarah's new boyfriend might be part of it."
As if summoned by his name, Topper's cherry-red convertible pulled into the marina lot, Sarah in the passenger seat. She was wearing her perfect Kook princess smile, but I knew her too well—something was off.
"Incoming," Rafe sighed as Sarah and Topper approached their car.
"Ken," Sarah greeted JJ with forced brightness. "Have you met my boyfriend?"
Topper's handshake was too firm, too eager. "Dr. Genratte's kid, right? Your mom's been helping my dad with some... business matters."
I felt Rafe tense beside him. "Funny, I didn't know your dad needed a doctor. Is he sick?"
A commotion broke out near The Wreck, interrupting what Topper wanted to say. John B had appeared, looking wild-eyed and desperate. Pope and Kiara were trying to hold him back as he shouted at Ward Cameron, who had materialized from his office.
"You killed him!" John B's voice carried across the marina. "You killed my father!"
My mother's sleek Tesla pulled up, and I watched as mom hurried toward the scene, her doctor's bag in hand. But something was different about her usual professional calm—she looked scared.
"Well," Topper said smoothly, "looks like the local entertainment is starting early today. Sarah, babe, we should get to the club."
But Sarah was staring at her father, at the way he wouldn't meet John B's eyes. "I'm staying with JJ and Rafe."
"Suit yourself." Topper's pleasant mask slipped for just a moment. "Just remember what we talked about."
As he walked away, Sarah's composure cracked. "He knows something. About last night, about the break-in. He offered to keep me 'safe' if I dated him."
"Safe from what?" Rafe demanded.
Before Sarah could answer, my phone buzzed with a text from MOM: *Get out of here. NOW. Don't trust anyone.*
Through the marina chaos, I caught Kiara's eye. She nodded slightly toward the marsh, then mouthed two words that made my blood run cold: "Royal Merchant."
"We need to go," I said, pulling out the coordinates. "I think I know where Big John was looking."
Rafe started the car as Sarah climbed in the back. Behind them, I could hear John B still shouting, could see Ward Cameron's calculated calm, could feel the weight of secrets threatening to drown their perfect Figure Eight lives.
The compass seemed to vibrate in my pocket. Hopefully, it could point us toward answers.