FOR JESSICA HARRIS-MERRIDA

I fall and fall deeper into the dark bottomless ice-cold ocean. Suddenly, I come to an abrupt stop and my body starts floating back to the surface. I flap my arms, kick my legs, and pop up with a gasping breath, the crisp night air hitting my throat. I slap the water, looking for anything to hold on to.

Through my blurry vision, I see the rocks jutting out under the bridge. I just have to swim and grab hold of one. I kick my legs wildly and try to grip the water as if it’s a surface I can crawl across.

Don’t splash too much. Sharks attack at night, I can’t help but think.

Swim, I keep telling myself. You can do it.

But the water is strong, the current latching on to my waist. I can barely keep afloat. My clothes feel heavy, weighing me back down. I cough up salty water, staying focused on the rocks, but they look too far away.

“Help!” I cry out, wondering if anyone can hear me, wondering if the murderer is watching me sink to the bottom.

Some calls are so important that you can only take them in your room, on your bed, feet propped up on the window ledge. Because that’s where the best reception is, and you can’t afford to lose a single second to a signal drop.

“You all packed up and ready to go?” Dad asks.

I press Mom’s cell phone to my ear. It can be so hard to hear Dad’s voice over the other voices shouting behind him. All those men in there, trying to call their families. Girls like me, gripping the phone tight like a life preserver, trying to feel their dad’s love through the Inmate Calling Service.

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “Mom is letting me take her new duffel bag.”

“She wants you to make a good impression. Okay, twelve times twelve?”

“Don’t see why,” I grumble. “And it’s one forty-four. Come on, Dad, be for real! School ended two weeks ago.”

“Martha’s Vineyard is supposed to be the place that rich Black folks go. This’ll be good for you! Get you out the house. Twenty times thirteen?”

I clutch the phone, nervous about accidentally hanging up. One slip of the finger and the call will be lost and then … silence for a whole day and this is my last chance to talk to him till I don’t know when.

“Uhhh … two hundred and sixty? And what’s wrong with our house?” Well, our apartment, on the third floor of a Brooklyn brownstone, if you want to be specific, which I always do.

“Nothing, baby,” Dad laughs. “But summertime is supposed to be for adventures. And you’ve seen all you can on Macon Street. Okay, now what’s one fifty-seven times—”

“You have five minutes remaining!”

The robotic lady’s voice is such a painful reminder of why we’re having this conversation on the phone, and not in person. Dad won’t be in person again for a minimum of seven to ten years.

Dad is silent for a moment. Maybe he’s thinking about it too, all the years he has left in there. Does he think about it as much as I do?

“Um,” I mumble, gripping the cell phone tighter, wishing I could climb right through it. “You talk to your lawyer lately?”

“Kaylani, what did I tell you? Don’t worry about all that. Your only job is to be a kid. Something you haven’t been doing much of lately. That’s why this trip is gonna be good for you.”

I groan, flopping on my bed, my Nintendo Switch nearly falling off before I save it. Close call! If the screen breaks, Mom won’t buy me another one. I don’t think she can afford it.

“But why I gotta go when I don’t wanna? I’m cool right here! It’ll probably be all hot out there. And you know I hate the beach.”

Dad laughs. “Who hates the beach?”

“Me! ’Cause sand gets in everything. I’ll be picking sand out of my sneakers till Christmas.”

“Lani, why you coming up with all these wack excuses? This ain’t like you. This ain’t like us. We don’t back down, do—”

“You have two minutes remaining!”

My hand starts to shake as I check the clock. Dad is only allowed fifteen minutes a day and it’s already been thirteen. Not enough time. It’s never enough time.

“Well,” I start, rolling my eyes to keep from tearing up. “What if they don’t like me ’cause … you know?”

Daddy goes silent and I wish I could see his face. I didn’t want to tell him how I’ve pretty much lost all my friends after his trial. Or how I really don’t want new friends because it’s hard to explain where he is and why. But I have a feeling Mom told him what’s been going on. It’s why they’ve been so pressed about me going on this trip to visit Grandma’s bougie church friend.

Daddy clears his throat. “Lani, I know things have been rough. Tough times don’t last, tough people do, and we’re gonna get through this. Can’t promise if they gonna like you or not, but what’s there not to like? You funny, smart, pretty like your moms, and you got a good heart. Just promise me you’ll be yourself. No switching up. Keep it real and keep it honest.”

“Okay, Dad. I promise.”

Dad sniffs again and I hear some mumbling in the background.

This is always the worst part, the hanging up. The unknown happening on the other end of the line. He’s not here to play Minecraft or test my math skills. He’s somewhere far off, somewhere he don’t belong and don’t want me to visit. So instead, he calls every day, four o’clock, right after school. But calls aren’t enough. It’s like eating a big fat cheeseburger but you’re still hungry for more.

Today, he’s calling in the morning, bright and early. Because I’m about to leave for that trip that’ll take me even farther away from him than I already feel.

“Okay, kid, you’re burning up all my minutes again,” he says with a laugh. “Talk to you later, baby.”

“Wait!” I beg, trying to keep my voice from sounding like I’m going to cry, which I’m always close to doing before he hangs up. “Did Mom give you Mrs. Watson’s phone number? Do you know what time you’ll call when I’m there? I want to be near the phone when you do.”

Dad hesitates for moment. “Um, yeah. But you know, I probably won’t be able to talk to you every day.”

“What? Why not?”

“Well … calls are hard to make, baby.”

That’s an excuse. Dad ain’t the best liar. Which makes him being in prison so extra stupid ’cause I know he didn’t do anything wrong. I just know it. But I don’t say anything. ’Cause calling him out when he’s already down and out isn’t a good look.

“Just do me a favor,” Dad says. “Be real nice to the Watsons for me. Before … everything happened … I was trying to get some of their tax affairs in order but their paperwork was such a mess. They getting old and confused but they’re real nice people. Been good to me and Grandma. Even now.”

Grandma has known the Watsons since she and Grandpa first moved to New York from Florida in the 1950s. Mr. Watson was a pastor who also worked on the stock exchange, Mrs. Watson a secretary. With no job and nothing but time on his hands, my super-religious grandpa offered to build Mr. Watson’s church for free.

“Your grandpa knew his way around a hammer and nails,” Grandma would say.

The Watsons never forgot the favor. When Grandpa died, Mrs. Watson gave my dad money to go to private school, then college, and Mr. Watson referred him to his job at Mercer Hedge Fund.

That is, his job before it all blew up.

Few weeks ago, Mrs. Watson asked Grandma if I would join them at their home on Martha’s Vineyard. I don’t want to go. But I also don’t want to disappoint Dad. He’s already been through so much. So I suck it up and tell him what he wants to hear.

“Okay, Dad,” I say. “I promise. I’ll be good. I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart. Don’t forget—stay sharp, eyes open.”

The line goes dead with a click, and my heart that had ballooned at the sound of his voice … deflates and flattens.

There’s never enough time.

I tip my chin up and walk into the living room, where Mom is stuffing the last of my T-shirts into a duffel bag. J-Roc’s album plays out of the speaker on the bookshelf. Mom has been listening to J-Roc a lot since Dad’s been gone. Makes it feel like Dad’s still here with us. Like he’s just in the kitchen, washing dishes as always or helping her fold laundry.

At seven a.m. that morning, Mom had walked in with a cup of coffee and started packing. Still dressed in her night-shift nurse uniform, she gives me a bright smile.

“All right, Kay-Kay. I think you’re all set!” she says, the zipper zinging through the air. “Mr. Watson will be here in fifteen minutes to pick you up. He says it’s a four-hour drive to the ferry, so you better make yourself a PB&J sandwich and grab some juice for the road.”

I stand beside her with the phone in my hand, ignoring the bag by my feet.

“Dad says he’s not going to call when I’m in Martha’s Vineyard!”

“Mmm. Oh,” she says, turning away, her voice going a touch high. Something that happens when she’s nervous. “Well, that’s okay. You’ll be too busy to be on the phone with him. You’ll be swimming, eating ice cream, fishing, and riding bikes in the sun! Oh! Reminds me, you need some leave-in spray. Can’t let your braids get all ashy while you’re gone.”

She books it to the bathroom, and I follow to her favorite room in our house. Mom is always good about appearance. Nails always short but pink, brown face always moisturized, short black bob always silk-pressed and swaying while she walks. I barely like to comb my hair and if ash wasn’t an issue on my dark skin, I wouldn’t bother with lotion at all.

“But,” I start, trying to figure out how to convince her this isn’t a good idea, “if Dad and I don’t talk every day, who will he talk to? You’ll be at work. Won’t he get lonely?”

Mom drops a jar of shea butter into a Ziploc bag and eyes me in the mirror. “Uhhhh, you know he was my husband first, right?”

I cross my arms. “So!”

Mom laughs, kissing my forehead. “Kay-Kay, relax. I’ll make time for the man. I promise! Did you pack up your book bag? You got your summer reading, right?”

Questions are always a distraction. Whenever things were bad with Dad’s trial, Mom would hit me with the off-topic third-degree: Did you clean your brush? Did you turn in that extra homework assignment? Did you—

“Did you talk to the lawyer?” I ask. “Tell him what I said? About the discovery stuff.”

Mom groans. “Didn’t I tell you to stop asking about that?” she snaps.

I step back, trying to keep the hurt off my face.

Mom closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I’m sorry, baby girl. I didn’t mean that. Maybe … well, I guess I’m a little nervous. Letting you go on your first big trip without me. Then being in this place all … alone … for the first time. It’s just a little much.”

I rush into the cramped bathroom and bury my face into her side, wrapping my arms around her, trying to squeeze her just as tight as Dad would. She squeezes me back with a chuckle.

That lawyer hasn’t been helping and it shows. From what I can tell, all he does is take Mom’s money, but he doesn’t provide many answers to our questions. He’s supposed to be submitting something called an appeal. It’s when after a person is found guilty, you ask a higher court to review the decision and change it. I learned that and then some at the mock trial workshop for kids that I took at the library last month. Now I know what a bunch of stuff Mom and the lawyer are talking about means.

There’s a pre-law camp that starts in August. It’s only for kids ages fourteen and up, but the teacher said that if I pass the entry test, I can take the course. And I’m going to. I’ll learn what I need to help our lawyer and get us one step closer to freeing Dad. This summer, I plan to study. So, really, there’s no time to waste on some silly vacation.

I look up at Mom, hopeful. She doesn’t know about the workshop I took. She thinks I’ve been doing arts and crafts. She doesn’t know about my plan. I have to be strategic.

“Maybe I should stick around,” I offer. “I could get a job! Help out at Ms. Merrion’s day care. That could pay for Dad’s prepaid calls, right?”

Calls are eighteen cents per minute. It can add up. And I see Mom working double shifts, trying to manage the bills and lawyer fees. It’s a lot to juggle. So, really, I’d be better off here, where I can be useful.

But Mom shakes her head with a sniff, giving my shoulder two fresh squeezes, then walks out the bathroom.

“Out of the question, Kay-Kay. You are in need of some FUN!”

“Mom! I—”

“Kaylani McKinnon.” The use of my full name makes me stand straighter. “A change of scenery will be good for you. And your father agrees. It’ll just be a few weeks.”

I dig my sneaker into the floor.

“Four weeks with people I don’t know,” I grumble.

She crosses her arms. “You’ve met London before. You used to play together.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen her since I was five!”

Mom waves me off. “So! Girls your age got plenty in common.”

I doubt that. I have no idea what it’s like going to some uptight Connecticut private school, and London Watson definitely doesn’t know nothing about Brooklyn public schools. We live on two different planets. Nah, solar systems.

This is going to be a nightmare.

“Remember, Kay. This. Is. For. Fun,” Mom says. “No work, just play. Okay?”

“Yes,” I agree. And since #operationFREEDAD isn’t work to me at all, I’m not lying.

The giant boat rocks and sways, water splashing along the side. Seagulls fly above in a cloudless blue sky, the wind carrying the scent of seawater. I’d enjoy the view, but I’m too busy trying not to throw up. Again.

All while London Watson’s face is turned up in disgust beside me.

“Have you, like, never been on a ferry before?”

London has on a light pink hoodie, denim shorts, and white sneakers. Her long black hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. She’s my age, but only one of us is wearing lip gloss and blush that looks too bright on her brown face.

I’ve been on the Staten Island Ferry once with Dad. He called it a day cruise to see the Statue of Liberty. But this ferry is different. We’re sailing across an ocean of rough waters, away from civilization. Or that’s how it seems.

When Mr. Watson pulled up to the port in Massachusetts, there were already dozens of people ready to take the forty-five-minute steamship ride to Martha’s Vineyard. Cars lined up in a row to drive into the undercarriage. I’ve never been on a boat that had cars on it. Some people had their vehicles packed with stuff, as if they planned on living on the island for a while. I guess that makes sense. Grandma did say the Watsons spend their entire summers on the Vineyard. From Memorial Day to late September.

Once on board, we jumped out of the car, went up to the top deck, and took our seats at the front of the ship, known as the bow. I was excited! Until the boat started moving and my peanut butter and jelly sandwich found its way up my throat and onto my shirt. I couldn’t believe I barfed! In front of everyone. And no nurse’s office to hide in until my mom could come and take me home.

“Yuppp. It happens to the best of us!” Mr. Watson had said with a chuckle after handing me a bottle of water and some napkins. “At least you don’t get carsick.”

London didn’t say anything at first, only glared in disgust while inching away from me. I don’t blame her; throwing up is nasty. But she could have at least given me a towel or something.

Mr. Watson recognized a couple from the island and walked inside to chat with them.

I lean my head back, letting the cool breeze hit my face. My stomach is twisting, my head spinning, and my skin is sticky with sweat as the boat bounces off the waves.

“How much longer?” I groan, covering my mouth with one hand, gripping the seat in front of me with the other. London stares at my white knuckles with a frown.

“So you’ve never been to the Vineyard before either?” she asks, shaking her head. “OMG. We go to the Vineyard every summer. So do, like, a bunch of my friends from school. Have you ever left Brooklyn in your entire life? God, what am I saying? Of course you haven’t.”

London’s clearly the type of girl who asks questions that she really wants to answer herself.

Mom was kind of right. London and I were friends at one point. We played together a bunch of times when we were five, before her parents whisked her off to some fancy house in Connecticut. Then I never heard from her again.

“Why leave Brooklyn when we’re the coolest place to be?” I croak out. Yeah, I know, it’s a wack comeback, but in my condition, I’m lucky I came up with anything to say at all.

I glance over at London’s big sister, Cassie. She’s sitting a few seats away, as if being near us would be an embarrassment. Eyes hidden behind dark shades, she yawns, pulling her gray hoodie over her dark curly hair. A boy walks by, staring at Cassie, damn near tripping over himself. Cassie gives him an unimpressed blank expression and turns back to the sea. I watch London peep the entire interaction. She swallows, sits up taller, and breaks out her own pair of sunglasses.

Cassie didn’t say more than ten words the whole car ride to the port while London chatted away with Mr. Watson. Cassie doesn’t seem like a talker. Mom would call her one of those “depressed about nothing” teenagers. Beautiful tan skin, big eyes, tall skinny legs. Four years older than us but London could be her younger clone.

I bet London would love hearing that.

“SHARK!” someone hollers.

I freeze, like my body turned into a block of ice.

All heads snap to the left. A woman is stretching herself nearly overboard to take a closer look at the water. She points wildly with one hand, holding her sun hat with the other. “Shark! Right there!”

“Ugh. Not again,” one of the stewards behind us grumbles as a crowd gathers, peering down below.

“Shhhhark?” I manage to whisper, but no one hears me. We are that far from civilization that we’re being hunted by sharks?!

London and Cassie jump up, joining the rest of the ship searching the waters.

“I don’t see anything,” someone says.

“Its fin came up over there!” the woman in the hat insists.

The only sharks I’ve ever seen were at the aquarium, and those lazy things didn’t look like they could chase a goldfish. But out here … sharks are the killing machines of the sea.

And we’re next on this one’s list.

“I think I’m going to be sick again.”

An old couple in front of me turns and giggles. Didn’t realize I said that out loud.

“Oh, there it is!” I hear someone shout.

I start to stand and join the others. But I’m too dizzy to take a step. Now, I don’t want to look all shook in front of London. I want to seem cool and brave, show that I’m a kid from BK and nothing scares me. But sharks? I have my limits.

Still, I manage to stay on my feet and shift closer to the rail. In the distance, I spot a slick, dark gray fin peeking out of the water, as if slicing it open. I stagger backward, tripping over a seat, holding in a scream.

“Maybe we should call ahead and warn the beaches,” a woman shouts.

“I don’t see anything!” someone else calls. How could he miss it?

“Nothing to worry about, folks,” a young steward announces, cupping hands around his mouth to make his voice carry. “That’s a basking shark. Lambs of the sea! They’re harmless and stay far from shore. They don’t care about humans. Everyone is safe!”

The excitement dies down as people return to their seats. London plops down beside me.

“I thought it was a real shark,” she pouts.

“I don’t think that shark would be down with you clowning it.”

London rolls her eyes. So much for my attempt at a joke.

The boat jerks to the right and my stomach tries to jump overboard. Maybe I need a distraction. I reach into my bag to grab my study notes, then hesitate. What if London sees and starts asking questions? What if she tells her grandparents, who ask my mom about it? How would I explain? So I stuff the notes deeper into my bag and grab my iPod, untangling the headset. I’ll have to study when no one is around. Maybe find a library on the island.

“What the hell is that?”

London’s question pulls me out of my thoughts.

“My music player,” I say, wondering how such a fancy-pants girl like her wouldn’t recognize it.

“An iPod? Where’d you pick that up, in the 1980s?”

My neck feels hot and it’s not from the sun. It’s that same feeling I got when kids at school asked about Dad.

“So you don’t have an iPhone?” she asks.

“No. I don’t have a cell phone. I mean, yet.”

“Ugh. So, like, how are you going to text all your friends? I hope you don’t expect to borrow my phone all summer, because I’ll be tied up.”

No real friends to text, I want to say. Any friends I had are long gone. And the only person I really want to talk to is Dad. Mom promised to give him the number to the Watsons’ house so he can call, but what if he calls while I’m out? How will he reach me?

London is still staring at my headphones as if she’s never seen wires before in her life.

“Uh, do you want to try them or something?” I ask.

“Ew, no. And what are you listening to on that thing anyway? Beethoven?”

“J-Roc,” I say proudly.

“J-Roc. Omg, that is so old-school!”

Suddenly, my seasickness lifts and I’m back to myself. ’Cause there’s no way I’m going to let anyone talk about J-Roc like that.

“You out of your mind! He just came out with a new album two months ago. He’s going on tour this summer. He has more hits than any rapper alive!”

“Uh, yeah. And he’s old. And wack.”

I almost fall out my seat. “What! No, he’s not. He’s the greatest rapper of all time!”

“No one listens to him anymore.”

“I do. My dad does. And so do a lot of other people.”

“Pssf. Well, that explains a LOT.”

Steam rises in my throat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smirks, as if proud of herself.

“It means—”

“London.”

Cassie’s voice startles us both. She uses it so little that it’s hard to ignore.

“Don’t,” Cassie says without glancing at us. Without even moving an inch. “You remember what Mom said. So just don’t.”

London swallows whatever poison she had on her tongue with a grimace. It must taste like vomit.

But I’m not ready to drop the conversation. How could she call J-Roc old and wack? Does she have any idea how he’s changed the game of hip-hop? Does she even listen to music or just that mumble rap stuff my cousins love?

Before I can say another word, the steamship whistle blows. Up ahead, land is on the horizon, moving closer. As everyone begins gathering their things, I take a quick peek over the side of the boat, into the dark blue waters, thinking back to what the steward said and knowing the truth.

Sharks are never harmless.

You’ve ever seen that movie The Wizard of Oz? It’s super old but I watched it with my grandma once. There’s a part where Dorothy is swooped up into a tornado and lands in this bright colorful little village that’s so different from the farm where she’s from.

That’s what it looks like when we dock in the town of Oak Bluffs. It’s like a dream, so unreal, so storybook beautiful, it almost makes sense that the boat would be my own tornado.

Mr. Watson drives us off the ferry, through a bustling port full of people. They’re jumping into waiting cars or walking toward what looks like the town’s center.

“Over there is the old carousel,” Mr. Watson says, pointing to a round red farmhouse building. “And that’s Circuit Ave. You girls will be spending lots of time down here. It’s where all the cool kids hang.”

“Grandpa,” Cassie snickers, shaking her head in the front seat.

“What? I know all about what the cool kids are into this summer.”

Mr. Watson speeds down the road, passing a marina with fishing boats, driving deeper into the island. The houses around us look like cottages, sitting on bright green lawns, surrounded by flowers, hedges, and trees. He turns down a road, and taller trees block out the sun as we wind up a hill. Just as I start to wonder what kind of house we’ll be staying in, the top of a lighthouse peeks through the trees, the sky brighter than I’ve ever seen as we come close to a cliff overlooking the water we just crossed. And on the corner is a giant gray house.

Dad said a lot of rich Black people vacationed on Martha’s Vineyard. But he didn’t mention that the Watsons owned a freaking mansion! It’s huge, three stories, with a separate smaller house on the side and a wraparound porch, the entire place surrounded by big bushes with white flowers. The car crunches over the pale rocks paving the driveway, stopping right at the porch steps. I don’t want to look like I’m some poor girl from the hood that ain’t seen nice things before because I definitely have … but I can’t help staring in awe.

At the top of the porch steps is a teenage boy, maybe Cassie’s age. Next to him, a beautiful old woman, who waves at us as Mr. Watson puts the car in park.

“What’s he doing here?” Cassie exclaims, eyes wide, staring at the boy like he’s a ghost.

Mr. Watson shrugs. “Beats me.”

“Who’s that?” I whisper to London.

“Chadwick Cooper,” she whispers back as if I should know, then immediately looks at Cassie, waiting for her next move.

Cassie flips down the sun visor, fixing her hair, digging through her bag with a nervous fidget.

“Where’s my lip gloss?” she mutters to herself.

Mr. Watson shakes his head. “Everybody out.”

London flings the car door open and shouts, “Grandma!”

“Hey, sweetheart!” Mrs. Watson says, descending the stairs and gathering London into a tight hug. They giggle, sharing inside jokes. I stay by the car, watching their reunion, and I instantly miss home.

“Hey, Grandma,” Cassie says all cool, striding up to her like a runway model.

“Cassie. My baby love,” Mrs. Watson says, kissing her temple.

Finally, Mrs. Watson turns to me with a glowing smile.

“Kaylani! My, how you’ve grown! Looking just like your mother.”

“Hi, Mrs. Watson,” I say, feeling shy. Mom told me that I met the Watsons when I was real little, but I have no memory of them at all. Still, I immediately remember my rehearsed lines. “Nice seeing you again. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

London rolls her eyes. I don’t know what her problem is. I don’t know if I even want to know.

“It’s my pleasure, dear,” Mrs. Watson says. “We’re happy to have you.”

Mrs. Watson reminds me of Grandma—thick arms, wide hips, brown skin, and bone-straight white hair, bump-curled up on her shoulders. Except Mrs. Watson is dressed real nice, in a long navy skirt, white top, flat black shoes, and pearls draped around her neck. She walks over to me and wraps an arm around my shoulder.

“Oh. Hey, Chadwick,” Cassie says to the boy still standing on the porch, as if she didn’t notice him. “Surprised to see you here.”

Now I’ve seen cute boys before at school or on my block. (I mean, I ain’t blind.) But Chadwick is a whole other level of cute. He’s a “belongs on a TV show, model, stop traffic” type of cute. Tall, with caramel skin, hazel eyes, and a thick mop of curly jet-black hair.

Chadwick smiles. “Just dropping off my mom’s tickets for the fundraiser.”

Mrs. Watson gasps. “Oh, where are my manners? Chadwick, meet Kaylani McKinnon. This is her first trip to Martha’s Vineyard.”

Chadwick turns to me, his smile big and bright. “A newbie! Nice to meet you, Kaylani.”

“Hi,” I squeak.

“And, of course, you know London. And Cassie.”

Chadwick nods at the sisters but doesn’t say anything. A weird tension fills the air. Mrs. Watson claps her hands as if to break the spell.

“Well, you girls run off and get settled in your rooms. Lunch is almost ready. I had Ms. Marguerite pick up your favorite dessert, a cobbler pie from Sunnyside Farm.”

Cassie and London exchange a look, then rush up the porch steps in a fit of giggles. But Cassie quickly rights herself as she passes Chadwick.

Mr. Watson unloads various suitcases from the trunk and lets out a huff. “Well, are they staying for the summer or are they moving in?”

“You know how they are,” Mrs. Watson says before turning to me. “Those two can go through several outfits a day.”

I wince back a smile. Mom only packed me enough clothes for two weeks before I’ll have to do laundry. Mostly T-shirts and shorts, maybe a sundress or two. But not enough for any type of fashion show.

Just be yourself, I can almost hear Dad say in my ear. And he’s right. Who cares what I wear? Well, London will, but would that be so bad?

Chadwick watches Cassie stride inside the house, his eyes never leaving her. Then he turns to me and Mrs. Watson.

“Here. Let me help you with that,” he says, grabbing my bag.

“Oh. Why … yes, thank you,” Mrs. Watson says.

I follow Chadwick as he lugs my oversize duffel up the porch steps. I stop at the door to take in the view of the lighthouse across the road, keeping watch over the sea. The water is so beautiful. You can’t even see the mainland. Feels like we’re floating in the middle of nowhere.

“That’s the East Chop Lighthouse,” Chadwick says, his tone serious. “It’s haunted.”

I whip in his direction. “What? Really?”

He cracks a smile. “Nah, I’m just messing with you.”

I let out a laugh, relieved. Definitely don’t want to wake up to a ghost crossing the road.

As soon as we step inside the house, we’re surrounded by red cherrywood, from floor to ceiling. Above us is a for-real candlelight chandelier, like the ones in old movies my grandma watches.

“Uh, sorry about that earlier,” Chadwick says, holding the screen door open for me. “I haven’t seen Cassie since last summer. She looks good. I mean … different.”

“It’s cool,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t really know her like that.”

He smiles. “Well, for your first time on the island, you pretty much got it made.”

“Oh yeah. Why?”

Chadwick stops at the foot of a grand carpeted staircase. He glances around as if it’s his first time inside. “I interned at the Martha’s Vineyard Historical Society last summer. I know all about houses around here.”

“Really? The historical society?” I laugh. Didn’t peg him as a fellow nerd.

“I know,” he says with a grin. “I have a secret identity. But it looks good on college applications. Yale likes well-rounded athletes.”

Yale. That’s an Ivy League college I’ve heard my dad talk about. Chadwick must be really smart.

“But like I said,” he continues. “It’s a big deal to live in a historic landmark like this.”

“Why is it a landmark?”

He wags his finger. “Nahhh, newbie. You gonna have to find that out for yourself. That’s the best part. But come on, I’ll give you a quick tour.”

When we walk into the bright kitchen, I have trouble keeping my mouth closed. The stove is big enough to serve my entire seventh-grade class. The white cabinets have old-fashioned gold handles that match the lamps. There are big glass doors leading to the backyard. And when I say backyard, I mean paradise because it looks like it could be mistaken for the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.

“Mrs. Watson loves to garden,” Chadwick says. “She donates her flowers to events during the summer.”

A wall of yellow, pink, and blue flowers surrounds an in-ground pool. Yellow beach umbrellas are propped over beige lounge chairs.

Sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning a bag of shrimp, is an older Black woman with white hair and dark skin.

“This is Ms. Marguerite,” Chadwick says. “We know each other through church. She’s been with the Watson family since forever. Lived on the island her entire life. Ms. Marguerite, this is Kaylani.”

Ms. Marguerite seems shocked to see Chadwick but quickly straightens and we nod at one another. Right behind her, I notice a set of stairs leading up to the second floor.

“Stay sharp, eyes open.” My dad taught me that when you grow up in Brooklyn, you have to always be aware of your surroundings.

I follow Chadwick through the living room and dining room, passing an office full of books. The house is like a vintage museum. There are paintings, sculptures, and the type of antique furniture you see in those dusty stores my grandma loves, all lit by the sunlight streaming through lace curtains. I feel like I’ve walked back in time to the early 1900s and I should be wearing a Victorian-style dress with a top hat, like you see on those PBS shows.

“Stay sharp, eyes open.”

Dad and I used to practice observing all the time. How many exits do you see on the train, in the movie theater, at the store? How many boys vs. girls are in my class? What color were the lady’s socks at the corner store? How many stairs at the Utica Ave train station? It became a game that even Mom would get in on.

And even though this seems like a really nice place, I can’t help checking things off in my head:

Three doors—one in the front, one in the back, and one off the side leading to the garage, where they store bikes and beach gear.

Two cars in the garage—Mr. Watson’s black SUV and Mrs. Watson’s black Lexus.

Two sets of stairs to the second floor.

No basement.

The walls are covered in old black-and-white photos of people from the 1920s to the 1960s. Black people like I’ve never seen them. In ball gowns with white gloves, in pinup swimsuits, in church clothes, smiles taking up their entire faces. Most of the pictures seem to be taken on the island, everyone so happy.

Then I see the Watsons posing in pictures with celebrities. From movie stars to music artists. As I walk along, one picture makes me stop in my tracks.

“Are those … the Obamas?” I stutter, pointing to the photo.

“Oh, yeah,” Chadwick says with a laugh. “They come here every summer.”

My mouth dries. “Are you saying that the first Black president comes to THIS island every summer?”

He laughs. “Yup.”

“When?” I ask, knowing how pressed I seem but not caring.

He smirks. “In two weeks. You should see the traffic their Secret Service causes.”

“Have you ever met them?” I ask.

“Ha! Nope. But I came close. The Watsons probably got them on speed dial.”

“Well, if you did meet them, they could probably help you get into Yale too.”

“Hey! Now that ain’t a bad idea.”

A thought crosses my mind, something I learned in the mock trial workshop I took. Presidents can give pardons, erase records, give people a clean slate.

#operationFREEDAD.

Even though Obama is no longer the current president, he still has access to the White House. He can ask on our behalf if we tell him the whole story. The truth. It’s a long shot but it’s worth it. I just need to be at the right place at the right time to meet him.

As we make our way back to the front of the house, I recognize Mrs. Watson in a few photos as a little girl and a teenager. There’s one in particular: her in a one-piece and swim cap, drying off at the beach with a group of women.

“That’s me and the Polar Bears,” Mrs. Watson says behind me, and I almost jump out of my sandals.

“The Polar Bears?” I echo.

She smiles at Chadwick. “I’ll take the tour from here, Chadwick. Thanks for stopping by.”

A stern look crosses his face before he flashes a smile at me.

“See you around, newbie. Next time, I’ll introduce you to my brother, Miles. He’s about your age and you two will get along.” He glances again at Mrs. Watson, then heads out the screen door.

“Such a sweetheart,” Mrs. Watson says before motioning back at the wall.

“The Polar Bears is a group that wakes up bright and early every morning during the summer to take a swim at the Inkwell. Water is so chilly that time of day, it feels like we’re in the Arctic. But it’s tradition. Back in the day, it was the only time and space it was safe for Black folks to swim in peace. Been going on for over seventy years.”

“You couldn’t swim when you wanted? I thought this was one of the first places to abolish slavery.”

She sighs. “Sounds silly, I know. But racism always sounds silly, don’t it? Looks like you’re into history.”

“A little.” I read up some at the Macon Library before leaving. I didn’t want to step onto an island I knew nothing about.

“Oh well, then you’ll simply love it here. This island has a lot of history.”

I’ve never seen old photos of my family like this before. My grandma said they didn’t have cameras in the poor South, which I found hard to believe. Dad and I went to the Brooklyn Public Library, in search of Black history books, hoping we’d find some of his ancestors in the pages. We never did, of course, but it was still fun. Dad loves history and I guess I do too.

This island isn’t what I expected it to be at all. All these Black people, all the history, and the Obamas … it’s like I’ve uncovered a whole new world.

“My dad said there’s a lot of rich Black people on this island,” I blurt out.

Mrs. Watson smiles. “Rich in our own ways, I suppose. This island is considered a safe space. A place where Black people could be free to be ourselves in all our glory. That’s why it’s so special. You’ll see for yourself very soon, there’s nothing like being on the bluffs.”

I follow Mrs. Watson up to the second floor, dragging my bag along. Even the stairs are fancy, with more updated pictures of the family, like ones of London and Cassie in their private school uniforms.

“The girls have been coming here since they were babies and have their favorite rooms in the house,” Mrs. Watson says as she opens a door right by the stair landing.

“You’ll be staying in here with London. Bathroom is just through that door, which connects with Cassie’s room.”

The room has two twin white wicker beds with white flower quilts and pillows the shape of seashells. A small window with light blue sheer curtains facing the backyard sits between the beds. From this angle, I can see just how big and spacious the pool is. I don’t want, as my grandma would say, to act like I ain’t never been nowhere before but I’ve never EVER stepped foot in a house like this!

“Well. I’m sure you’re hungry,” Mrs. Watson says, folding her hands. “Why don’t you get settled. I’m going to see if Ms. Marguerite needs any help with lunch.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Watson,” I say, and really mean it this time. This place is pretty fancy and the fact that they’re letting me stay for free, no strings attached, when Mom is struggling … means a lot. Aside from promising Dad I would be nice, I also have to make sure that Mr. and Mrs. Watson really like me. They could be my key to the Obamas! A possible key to Dad’s freedom.

Mrs. Watson nods. She opens her mouth as if to say something else, but then she seems to rethink it.

“Just … make yourself at home, dear,” she says with a smile and closes the door behind her.

I know I’m wearing a goofy grin as I twirl in a circle, admiring the room again. Then I dump my book bag on one of the twin beds. Mom didn’t let me bring my Switch, saying it would only keep me in the house all day. As if I can’t take it outside or something. So I only packed a few things to keep myself entertained: three books, a notepad, my study cards, and an Uno deck. Not that I think anyone would want to play with me. These people don’t seem like the type.

The bathroom door swings open and out pops London in a pair of short shorts and a sparkling pink rainbow bikini top.

“I am ready for the—ew. Are you serious?”

“What?”

She gives me a hard once-over. “You haven’t changed yet? You’re still covered in puke. That’s so disgusting.”

So caught up in the beauty of the house, I forgot all about the speckles of barf on my T-shirt.

“Well … we just got here,” I shoot back.

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t be caught dead one second looking like that,” she says, plopping down on a pink vanity chair, facing a white wicker mirror. “I’m ready for the beach; you can do what you want.”

It’s very clear she has no intention to be my tour guide over the next few weeks. At least we’re on the same page; I want nothing to do with her either. All I need is someone to point me in the direction of the nearest library. I have my flash cards and books. I don’t need much more than that.

“When my grandma asks, just tell her you’re not feeling well,” she says, lining her lips.

“What? I’m not going to lie.”

“It’s not a lie. You were sick on the boat.”

“Well, I’m better now.” Even though I still feel a bit queasy. Not sure if I can manage lunch.

London snorts and fluffs her ponytail in the mirror, as if I’m wasting her time.

“Look, I have things to do. Can you even ride a bike?”

I cross my arms. “I learned the same weekend you did, remember? That’s how you got that scar on your knee.”

London blinks, glancing at the scar as if she forgot it was there. “Oh. Whatever. We don’t have to be stuck with each other all summer.”

London turns on her phone, the speaker blasting some obnoxious music as I try to unpack.

“Can you turn that down?” I ask. It’s making my ears bleed.

London scoffs. “At least it’s better than J-Roc or whatever you listen to.”

“You don’t even know his music. That tells me everything I need to know about your taste.”

London checks herself out in the mirror, smoothing down her hair. “Are you going to change, or are you going to stand around smelling like spoiled milk all day?”

I squirm, wishing I had a better comeback but really just wanting to leave. Except I’m on an island. No trains or buses I can hop on to head home to the safety of my room. And I’m definitely not ready to tackle that boat again.

London shakes her head with a scoff and storms out the room.

I dig into my bag for a new shirt, holding back tears. Mom would never let me be caught dead outside in a bikini. Not that I have much to show off. London is shaped like a teenager already. I still look ten, definitely not twelve.

“Don’t let them see you cry,” I grumble to myself. It’s the same mantra I chanted all school year when comments about Dad’s conviction rose above a whisper.

“That was really good,” I say from my seat at the dining room table, resisting the urge to ask for a third helping, gnawing on a second warm roll instead.

“I’m glad you enjoyed,” Mrs. Watson says. “Beef bourguignon has been in our family for generations. For dinner tonight, we will be having lamb.”

Beef bourguignon must be a fancy bougie way of saying beef stew. And I’ve never had lamb before. At least I’m going to eat good while I’m here. Most afternoons, I survive on grilled cheese and soda before Mom comes home and cooks a real dinner.

Ms. Marguerite gathers our empty plates while Mrs. Watson cuts into a berry cobbler pie. The cloth covering the mahogany table feels like satin, like it’s too expensive to eat on. I ate slow just to make sure not to spill a single drop. Grandma would kill me if I ruined these people’s good stuff. She’ll kill me if I embarrass her at all.

Act like you got some home training when you’re over there, she warned when we spoke on the phone a few days ago.

“So, girls,” Mr. Watson begins, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Why don’t you tell Kaylani the rules of the house?”

Cassie puts down her fork and recites the lines as if she’s said them a million times.

“Dinner’s at five. Curfew’s at nine. No exceptions.”

“No bikes in the driveway, no toys left in the pool, no sand in the house, and after midnight, we must be quiet as mice,” London adds.

“Folks are always watching. Be smart, be a Watson,” Cassie says with a nod at Mr. Watson.

“That’s my girls,” he says, all proud.

The rules aren’t so bad. Not too far off from my dad’s.

“Stay sharp, eyes open.”

“See, we have a very good reputation on this island,” Mrs. Watson explains. “And we plan to keep it that way for a long time. Speaking of reputation,” she adds, glancing at London and Cassie, “our charity soiree will be held at the art gallery down on Circuit this summer. I’ll need you girls to help out at it.”

“What are we raising money for this time?” Cassie asks with a hint of annoyance.

“A scholarship to send at least two kids to Parker Academy.”

“Ew,” London groans. “Scholarship kids are so ghetto.”

“London, watch your mouth,” Mrs. Watson scolds, though there isn’t much heat behind her words.

“But it’s true! They come to our school and don’t know how to act. It’s pathetic.”

“Didn’t your dad go to Parker?” Cassie asks me from across the table.

Mr. Watson holds a fork midair, pausing long enough for me to notice.

I gulp, that fire creeping up my neck again. “Uhhh …”

“Yes, Mr. McKinnon attended Parker,” Mrs. Watson says. “I helped him with the application myself. And he did us proud. He was a mathlete, if I remember correctly. Won competitions. Young man could do all kinds of complicated math problems in his head. And he loved to read.”

An awkward silence falls on the table and my fingers twist themselves into knots. Cassie and London raise their eyebrows at each other, both of them biting their lips to hold in snickers. Of course they know about my dad. Guess it was stupid to believe I could take a vacation from the judging eyes, the whispers, the constant embarrassment. I hate even thinking of my dad as an embarrassment when I know he did nothing wrong. And when I finally prove it, I’m going to make sure to shove that proof in everyone’s faces.

“But why does it have to be me!”

After lunch, I escape up to my room, but I can hear London downstairs throwing a tantrum, her whining voice bouncing off the walls. I tiptoe closer to the bedroom door, peeking out. London is under the chandelier, her grandma standing in front of her, arms crossed.

“Shhh!” Mrs. Watson says. “Lower your voice. Do you want her to hear you?”

Their voices drop and I shift out of sight, hoping to catch their entire conversation.

“It’s not fair. Cassie doesn’t have to—”

“Cassie is older, and you and Kaylani are the same age. It just makes sense for you to be the one to show her around.”

“But she’s weird! She doesn’t even have a cell phone.”

Mrs. Watson shakes her head. “London Denise, I’m warning you. This attitude of yours is unbecoming of a Watson. We always help the less fortunate, don’t we?”

London sighs. “Yes, Grandma. But—”

“No buts, young lady. Kaylani’s been through a lot this year and we are going to show her a good time. Now, you will show her around town, keep her company, or you won’t go out at all. Is that understood?”

London’s shoulders sag. “Yes.”

Just as I thought, I’m a charity case. London’s feet stomp up the stairs and I scramble back to my bed, trying to figure out how not to make this any more uncomfortable than it has to be.

The door clicks open. London stands there, seeming defeated. She takes a deep breath.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

London pedals her purple bike through the hectic Oak Bluffs traffic as another ferry arrives at the dock with even more people coming to vacation. On a matching pink bike, I follow close behind.

“This is Ocean Park,” London says, making a turn.

The large park facing the ocean has bright green grass and several walking paths that lead to a little white gazebo in the middle. The park is lined with small, colorful cottages. One bright blue, another mint green, one even pink.

“Those are the gingerbread houses,” London says, pointing. “They’re so cute!”

For a change, I see her smile. She must really love the houses, love it here.

Folks on their porches wave at us as we pass.

We make the half circle, then we’re back on the main road.

“And this is the Inkwell,” London says, motioning to the beach on our left that’s full of umbrellas, towels, music, and laughter. The place Mrs. Watson mentioned where the Polar Bears go.

London takes to the road as if she’s been biking on the island her entire life, which she probably has. Since I only bike when I can get my hands on one, which is maybe three times a year, I’m crazy out of practice. And my legs are feeling the burn.

“Yo! Can you slow down?” I shout ahead.

London peeks over her shoulder at me, rolling her eyes. She reluctantly eases her pace.

“Thanks,” I say through gasping breaths.

I try to take it all in, remembering street signs, houses, and businesses. Dad always reminds me to pay attention to landmarks. “You gotta have a good sense of direction so you always know how to get home, wherever you are and whoever you’re with.”

“Where are we going?” I ask. “Are we going to be biking like this all summer?”

“You want to see the island, don’t you?”

I do, I think to myself. But I also want to breathe again. And I’m sure the sun is burning my forehead.

But even through all my complaining, I can’t front that this place feels magical. The homes, the water, the way everyone seems so happy, friendly and kind. On the road, we pass a bunch of fishermen, hikers, and families on bikes with tons of beach gear. Trees give us a much-needed relief from the sun, until the road turns into its own island, with water on either side of us. Cars line up against sand dunes covered in tall grass.

Up ahead, the road narrows to a simple flat bridge. Right before it, an old black-and-white sign reads: ENTERING EDGARTOWN. INC. 1671.

“What’s Edgartown?” I ask.

“It’s another part of the island, near South Beach. It’s where the Obamas live when they’re here. They have a huge house! Bigger than Grandma and Grandpa’s.”

“REALLY?” I start pedaling faster, passing her.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Edgartown is where I need to be. I mean, I don’t want to come off as a stalker and Mom would kill me if I got arrested, but if I’m going to meet the Obamas, I’ll have to know where they live, shop, everything. I need to see Edgartown!

“Slow down,” London snaps from behind me.

Dad would flip out at the chance of me running into the Obamas!

At first, there doesn’t seem to be anyone on the bridge except us. But then a little white boy appears, running out of the tall grass, barefoot in neon green swim trunks. He rushes to the middle of the bridge, looks both ways, then starts climbing the railing.

My back goes rod straight and my feet stop working.

“What’s that kid doing?” I shout.

“Huh?” London says.

The kid climbs to the top of the railing, shakily balancing himself, staring down at the water below. My stomach drops. All I can hear is the clicking of bike gears and my heart beating fast.

Oh God. He’s gonna jump!

“Hey, kid!” I call out. “What are you doing?”

But it’s too late. He closes his eyes, holds his nose, and steps off the railing. And as I watch him disappear, I let out a scream.

“NOOOOO!”

I scream again and pedal hard to the spot where the boy jumped off.

“Kaylani, what are you doing?” London shouts behind me.

“Call 911,” I yell, and hop off the bike, rushing to the railing just as I hear a crowd cheer.

Below, the kid pops out of the blue-green water with a grin like he won a major award, hair glistening in the sun.

What I couldn’t see from my bike was all the people floating in the water below, urging him on. People who clearly have made the jump themselves. They tread water before swimming to the rocky shore, all to climb back up to the bridge and jump again.

Oh.

A car passes, beeping its horn, the passengers chanting, “Jump jump jump!”

London joins me as my heart slows down.

“Would you relax?” she laughs. “Everyone jumps off the bridge. It’s, like, a tradition here.”

I watch as two girls floating on their backs flip over and swim to the shore that’s lined with large boulders. As they climb up to the sandy beach, I can tell they’re being careful not to slip. Some of the rocks are covered in dark green slime. Maybe algae.

“These people are crazy,” I say, peering farther over the railing. The bridge is not tall enough for big boats to pass below, but for small ones and jet skis.

“You ever hear of that movie Jaws?” London says. “The one with the shark that attacks everyone? It was shot here on the island, right at this spot, so people call this the Jaws bridge.”

Another splash. This time a couple holding hands jumped together.

“Didn’t they say on the boat that the sharks don’t come over here?” I ask. The water does not seem clear enough to see what’s coming.

“Of course sharks don’t,” London says, rolling her eyes.

Then why would they shoot a movie here about sharks? I want to ask. But the question makes me feel like I’m the one losing my mind while other people are risking their lives jumping into the unknown.

“Have you ever jumped?” I ask London. I watch the little boy I saw before climbing up the rocks, ready to jump again.

London hesitates. “No. I … I haven’t yet. Do you know how to swim?”

I took lessons at summer camp a few years ago and Dad always used to take me to the beach at Coney Island. I know how my body is supposed to work in water, but it definitely doesn’t.

“Sort of,” I say.

London rolls her eyes. “Great. Now I have to keep watch to make sure you don’t drown. If I knew I was going to be a babysitter all summer, I would’ve asked for money.”

I spin around to her.

“Yo, look,” I snap. “I don’t want to be here either, but you’re not going to keep talking to me any kind of way.”

“Fine! So how about this,” London says, stepping closer. “In the mornings, we leave together. Then you go your way and I’ll go mine. We’ll meet up again at right before dinner and you’ll tell Grandma we hung out all day.”

“I can’t do that,” I scoff. “That’s a lie!”

She waves me away. “It’s a small lie. What? You’ve never lied before?”

“I never had a reason to.”

“Ha! That’s because you don’t have a life. I mean, really, who doesn’t have a cell phone?” London takes out her phone and starts scrolling.

I bite my tongue so I don’t snap back. I have a feeling I’m going to need to use that phone someday and I dread what I’ll have to do to get it.

I lean my motorcycle to the left, the engine roaring as I skirt around the mountainside track. On another tight turn, I squeeze my body and lean to the right, avoiding the bushes and trees. Another car speeds past, knocking me out of first place. But I can catch up to him. I know I can!

The sun has set, the stars are out, and we’re at the arcade on Circuit Avenue. The ice cream shops, restaurants, and tourist stores are all buzzing, but the arcade is clearly the big draw here: Dozens of kids flock toward its flashing lights and dinging sounds like mosquitoes to fresh blood.

Back at the house, after dinner, Mr. Watson had asked, “So, ladies. What are your plans tonight?”

Cassie shrugged. “I’m tired. Think I’m going to call it a night.”

“But … I thought we were going to go to Circuit Ave?” London whined.

Cassie laughed. “We weren’t going to do anything. I have all summer to hang on Circuit. Plus, I want to finish this book I’ve been reading.”

London seemed wounded, but Mrs. Watson insisted she take me to Circuit instead. So here we are. I’m having a good time. London, who knows.

I rev my engine on the plastic bike bolted to the floor as kids around me shoot hoops, fire off pinballs, and kill aliens. One little boy and his dad spend all their money on one of those claw machines, trying to win themselves a blue stuffed teddy bear.

Back on the track, I’m catching up to the driver who passed me. One more turn before I speed through the finish line, first place.

“Whooo! Ah! That was so cool!” I say, swiping my points card to ride again.

Behind me, London stands propped up against a Pac-Man, her eyes fixed on her phone.

“Yeah yeah, real cool,” she mumbles. She hasn’t bothered to even try one of the games. Too busy reapplying her lip gloss and fussing with her hair. Meanwhile, I could live in the place. I’m having major withdrawal from my video games back home. This might be the fix I need. Maybe this vacation won’t be such a wash. I’ll visit museums, beaches, and the library during the day to study, hang out here at night.

“Hey, London!”

A boy with tight curly brown hair, dressed in a bright orange polo shirt, appears beside us.

“Oh. Hey, Miles,” London says as if unimpressed, but straightens her back.

“When did you guys get here?” he asks. “You missed it, we had a huge water gun fight on the Inkwell.”

“Water gun fight?” I ask, brightening. That sounds like fun.

The boy turns to me and smiles. “You’re new!”

London rolls her eyes. “Kaylani, this is Miles. Miles Cooper, Kaylani. She’s staying with our family this summer.”

“Miles? You’re Chadwick’s brother?”

“Yeah! You know him?”

“He gave me a tour of the house,” I admit. “He’s pretty cool.”

Miles laughs. “That guy! He did two weeks at that historical society and all of sudden he’s a master tour guide.”

London sighs, checking her nails as if our conversation is boring her.

“There’s a bunch of us here already.” Miles turns to me to explain. “All the kids on the island kinda know each other. Most of us been coming here our whole lives. We’re meeting up at Deion’s house tomorrow. He’s got a pool. You should come!”

“We got a pool too!” London retorts and I want to cringe.

“Uh, yeah but … it’s much more fun at Deion’s house.”

London scowls and I can barely hold in my laugh.

“Well, what’s your brother up to tonight?” she asks.

“He’s staying in. Said he had some book he wanted to read.”

London raises an eyebrow. “A book?”

“Yeah. But that’s probably code for some party he’s going to.” Miles shrugs. “I’m gonna meet some of the guys for ice cream. Want to come?”

I quickly scoot off the motorcycle. All through dinner, the Watsons had talked about how famous the ice cream was on Circuit, and I’m craving some butter pecan. But London grabs my shoulder, giving Miles a fake smile.

“No, thanks. We have to get home,” she says, pushing me toward the door. “Curfew and all. Later!”

Miles shrugs. “All right. Later. Nice meeting you, Kaylani.”

Outside, London walks double-time to our bikes parked on a rack outside a pizza spot.

“He was nice,” I say, wiggling out of her hold. “So what, you don’t like ice cream or something?”

London flips her hair. “If I start eating ice cream today, I’ll have it every day, and I want my waist snatched before school starts.”

She can’t be serious, can she?

“And what’s your problem with Miles? He’s too weird for you too?”

She kicks up her bike stand, strapping on her helmet.

“Miles and the other kids act like … kids.”

I snort. “Pretty sure we ARE kids, London.”

“Well, I don’t want to play tag, or get my hair wet in water gun fights. I have bigger plans. Besides, we have to hurry to catch her.”

“Catch who?”

London jumps on her bike and pushes off. “Cassie!”

London uses a blinking light on her bike to lead us home through the pitch-dark streets, trees looming in an arc above us. The insects seem louder than the few cars that have flown by. I’ve never been anywhere that didn’t have streetlights, and this island doesn’t seem to believe in them.

I’m sure we’re lost before we take a familiar turn up the steep hill and I spot the lighthouse in the distance.

London slows to a creep and stops by a hedge at the end of the Watsons’ driveway. She turns to me, a finger over her lips.

“Shhh.”

“What are we doing?”

A rustling in the trees makes me flinch. London’s head snaps in its direction. Something is in the dark woods, an animal, coming closer. London hops off her bike. I follow, ready to run and scream before out pops Cassie.

“Where you going?” London says in a whisper.

Cassie yelps, shoving her sister’s shoulder with the palm of her hand.

“Ow!” London shrieks, nearly losing her balance. Cassie covers London’s mouth, then grips her chin, standing nose to nose.

“Would you shut up!” she growls. “You want Grandma to hear you?”

Cassie shuts off London’s bike light. In the brief moment it hit her face, I noticed she was wearing makeup and that her white halter sundress practically glowed in the dark.

“What are you two doing out here anyways?” Cassie hisses. “Get inside.”

“Where are you going?” London asks again.

“Nowhere. You didn’t see me.”

“You’re going to that party on the beach.”

Cassie blinks. “How do you know about that?”

London ignores the question. “Can I come?”

Cassie scoffs. “No freaking way. Go inside.”

“Please,” she begs. “I promise, I’ll be cool.”

Cassie stares at her, considering. “And what are you going to do with her?”

They both glare at me as if I’m an out-of-place piece of furniture.

London bites her lip. “Um, she’ll … come with us.”

“Ha,” Cassie snickers. “Yeah, right.”

I finally find my voice. “What are you guys talking about?”

London turns to me, gripping my hands. “Kaylani, come on. The beach is where all the cool kids are going tonight. We need to be there.”

This is all over some party? No way!

I yank free. “Um, we don’t have to be nowhere but our beds.”

London stomps her foot. “Kaylani, are you serious?”

“We can’t sneak out. It’s against the rules!”

Cassie chuckles, then starts to walk away.

Frantic, London thinks hard before making one final plea. “If you come and keep your mouth shut,” she tells me, “I’ll let you use my phone, anytime you want.”

I start to argue but realize: This will be the best way for Dad to get in contact with me. I won’t have to stay inside, waiting. I just need to give him London’s number.

“Okay, fine. I’ll come. And I’ll be quiet.”

London beams, then turns back to her sister.

“Please?” she begs in a small voice.

Cassie’s eyes toggle between us before she lets out a groan.

“All right, fine. Go inside, say good night to Grandma. Then sneak out the back door. You know the way. Be back here in ten minutes or I’m leaving without you. And if you guys screw up tonight, I’ll make you regret it!”

Cassie’s plan works. Mrs. Watson doesn’t suspect a thing as London and I say our good-nights and head upstairs. Then London spins around the room like a twister, changing into another dress and beating her face with makeup that makes her look like a clown rather than older.

When London’s done, we meet Cassie outside and follow her to the main road, where a cab is waiting. Fifteen minutes later, we’re dropped off on the side of a dark road lined with trees, the distance blocked by sandy hills covered in tall grass.

“Where are we?” I whisper.

“Shh,” London snaps as Cassie leads the way into the tall grass. I feel sand in my sneakers as we trek upland, with only cell phone lights to direct our way. The sounds of waves crashing against the shore are muted by the thrum of a bass. Music? Up ahead, an orange-yellow glow flickers at the top of the hill.

We reach the peak and gaze down at the beach on fire. Well, a bonfire, but it’s huge, with dozens of teens surrounding it. They clump together, laughing and talking, red cups in hand.

We carefully descend, trying not to trip and tumble. The sand is full of rocks and shells that crunch under our feet. In the distance, I see the Jaws bridge, glowing in the moonlight.

Music blasts out of a pickup truck parked near the bonfire. We come to a stop beside a large red cooler in the sand.

“Don’t move from this spot,” Cassie warns, pointing at our feet. “Don’t even talk to people or I’m taking you home. Got it?”

I nod for us both. I’m good at following rules. Well, until today, when I’ve clearly broken several within hours of arriving.

A group of girls standing by the bonfire wave at Cassie and she skips over to them, London and me quickly forgotten.

I grab a can of Coke from the cooler and a red cup.

“Ooh. Good idea! No one needs to know what we’re drinking,” London whispers, grabbing a water and taking sips, pretending the taste burns.

I shake my head. “You acting real ridiculous right now.”

London shifts on her feet. “Well. We have to blend in,” she says all defensive-like.

“Girl, we ain’t supposed to be here and everyone knows it!”

London tilts her chin up, ignoring me, bouncing her knees to the music.

A roaring engine startles me as headlights flash across the faces in the crowd.

A truck skips up the sand dune and skirts to a stop right near the bonfire. Out pops Chadwick. The crowd cheers at the sight of him, like he just scored the winning basket at a championship game.

The whole party seems to stop and stare as he makes his way through the crowd. He bounces around, handing out hugs and slapping high fives. I notice him staring at Cassie. In the firelight, she looks like an angel. But his eyes grow a touch hard at the sight of her. Then his gaze lands on us.

London freezes up.

“Uh-oh, what’s going on here?” he says with a laugh. “You guys lost?”

Cassie rushes over, standing next to London. “Hey, Chadwick.”

“Hey, Cassie,” he says, his voice kinda cold.

They stare at each other and I feel like I’m invading a private moment. I pull at London’s arm, trying to give them space.

“What?” she snaps at me, refusing to budge.

Cassie smiles at Chadwick. “Uh … sorry. I got scammed into bringing them.”

“Nah, it’s all good,” Chadwick says. “I love little kids. You know that.”

London scowls. She clearly doesn’t like being called little by anyone, and for once I agree with her.

“Hey, we ain’t that little,” I say. “And I’ve been to parties before!” Well, block parties with my parents don’t really count but he don’t know all that!

He holds his hands up, laughing. “All right, my bad, newbie!” Chadwick has a smile you can’t help grinning back at. I can see why Cassie or any girl would fall for him. He already feels like a cool older brother I never had.

Music coming from the truck finally starts sounding familiar.

“Yo, turn that up,” Chadwick says to the driver. “You know I mess with J-Roc heavy.”

“What? Really?!” I shout. “You like J-Roc?”

“Yeah! Best emcee ever. He’s in my top three. You rock with him?”

“He’s the best of all time!” I say excitedly.

I flash London a smile. Her face is tight, but she doesn’t say a word.

“I love him too,” Cassie says, taking a sip of her drink. Chadwick gives her a small smile and turns back to me.

“All right, what’s your favorite album?”

“Well, I love No Limits but his best is always gonna be Daredevil.”

“Okay, I see you! You know your stuff. Here, check this out!”

He digs into his wallet and pulls out two concert tickets, shining his cell light on them for me to read. London and Cassie lean over my shoulders as I gasp.

“J-Roc. You’re going to J-Roc’s concert! How did you … where did you …” I can barely find the words.

Chadwick laughs. “My dad got a hookup. It’s a few weeks away, in Boston, so I’mma leave the island for the weekend. I can’t wait.”

“I wish I could go,” I sigh. “Mom says I’m too little to go to rap concerts, but when my dad gets home, he promised we’d go together.”

“You mean when he gets out of prison?”

London’s voice cuts through the air and her eyes grow big. She must not have meant to say that aloud. The mention of my dad can suck the life out of any room or party.

I swallow, waiting for Chadwick’s reaction. His eyes flicker from me to London to Cassie and back.

Cassie grips London’s arm, yanking her away. “Uhh … excuse us for a moment, would you?”

As Cassie and London have a private meeting, where it seems Cassie is just scolding London, Chadwick and I stand in awkward silence.

Chadwick gives me a small smile. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” I mumble, even though my neck is burning and I’m ready to go home.

Chadwick takes another sip of his soda and smiles. “So. Figure out what’s so special about that house yet?”

“Uhhh … it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Can I have some time?”

He laughs. “I can give you forty-eight. I’ll even give you a prize if you tell me who owned the house before the Watsons.” He leans in. “It’s kinda a mystery.”

“Oh, that’s easy. I’ll just go to the library and find the deeds.”

Chadwick looks impressed. “What you know about deeds?”

“My dad says that everyone gets a deed when you own a home. You can’t do anything without it.”

He crosses his arms. “Really? Mmm. How do you know the Watsons again?”

“Well, my dad works … I mean, used to do work for them. Accounting stuff at this big firm. Before he was … he was …”

I stare at the sand, struggling to say the next thing, to say what happened, because I never want to talk about it.

But when I look at Chadwick, his whole face seems frozen as he stands there like a rock. He doesn’t move for a solid five seconds. Then finally, he shifts on his feet.

“Yo, excuse me for a second?” he mumbles and walks off toward the water. At first, I think he’s going for a swim. But he stops by the shoreline, tiny waves splashing against his legs, the light of his phone bright in his face. He looks … confused. That’s the only word I can think to describe it. Like he’s trying to work out some complicated math problem.

Cassie rushes to my side. “What happened? What did you do?”

“Nothing!”

“Well, you had to have said something for him to walk off like that,” London snaps at me.

Cassie groans. “Ughhh! I knew I shouldn’t have brought you two.”

Chadwick still has a deep frown on his face as he scrolls through his phone. What is he doing?

Another truck rolls down the beach, this one much older than Chadwick’s fancy one. It stops right by the bonfire. Out pop two boys. Cassie seems to stand straighter at the sight of them. But London only mutters under her breath.

“Oh, brother.”

One of the guys walks right up to us, wearing a huge goofy grin.

“Hi, Cassie,” he says.

Cassie sighs, a playful smile on her lips. “Jaden.”

Jaden takes a staggering step back. As if his own name took his breath away. His friend bumps his shoulder.

“Pick up your chin, bro. She’ll be here all summer.”

If Jaden could turn red, he would.

“And who is this?” he asks.

“Kaylani, this is Jaden,” Cassie says. “Jaden and his family help take care of the grounds during the winter when Grandma and Grandpa are not around.”

“Oh, so you’re from Martha’s Vineyard?” I ask. “You don’t just visit for the summer?”

“Nope. I was born and raised here. I actually live on the Campground. Close to Circuit.”

“You camp all year?” I ask, stunned.

He laughs. “Nah, it’s just called the Campground. They’re the mini cottages that everyone says look like gingerbread houses.”

“Really?” Those were the ones London pointed out earlier.

I’m about to ask more questions when someone steps right in front of me, blocking my view.

“Jaden,” Chadwick says, his voice hard.

Jaden’s face darkens. “Chad.”

As they size each other up, the party around us comes to a standstill.

Chadwick raises an eyebrow. “Only my peoples can call me Chad. And you’re not one of them.”

Jaden scoffs. “What’s your problem?”

“You know what it is.”

Uh-oh.

I know when a fight is about to break out when I see one. Not many words have to be spoken to feel it. The unsaid beef is in the air, so I know what will happen next.

First, they bump chests, their boys gathering around them, trying to break them apart, but still talking smack. Then someone shoves the other and chaos erupts.

I pull London back just as the first fist swings. The rest of the girls fall back, shouting and begging for the boys to stop. Then the two are on the ground tussling, sand flying with every move. Finally, Jaden pulls his arm back and swings, connecting with Chadwick’s face. Blood splatters as Chadwick hollers in pain.

Cassie dives on the ground, grabbing his chin and putting a napkin up to his bloody nose.

“Jaden!” she shouts. “Are you insane?”

“Me?” he yells, standing over them, panting. “He started it!”

London stares, wide-eyed. I don’t think she’s ever seen a fight in real life before.

“What was that all about?” I ask her.

But in the distant darkness, red and blue lights flicker.

“Cops!” someone yells.

Kids scramble in every direction. I grab London’s wrist and pull her to the side of Chadwick’s truck. Dad always said, if a crowd runs around you, stay on your feet and find a place to hide so you won’t be trampled.

London didn’t get that memo.

“What are you doing?” she snaps, yanking her hand away.

The beach is almost clear except for the roaring fire. Chadwick holds his bloody nose, avoiding eye contact with anyone. He doesn’t seem angry. More … embarrassed if anything. Getting knocked out in front of everyone will do that to you.

“Jaden, can you take the girls home?” Cassie says, helping Chadwick stand. “I need to make sure Chadwick is okay.”

Jaden doesn’t even look at us. “What? You’re worried about him? After everything he’s done?”

“Jaden,” Cassie snaps, shaking her head. “Not now.”

I’m dizzy from going back and forth, trying to follow a story with several missing pages.

“I can stay and help,” London insists.

“Go home,” Cassie barks and storms away, her arm around Chadwick.

London stands there for a moment as her sister and Chadwick disappear into the darkness.

But the red and blue lights are growing closer. What if we’re caught? I’d be lying and breaking the rules within twenty-four hours of being here. And London’s punishment … they could take away her phone.

I grab London’s wrist again and push Jaden toward the road.

“Come on! We have to go!”

Jaden resists at first, then quickly leads us to his truck. As I climb in, I turn around just in time to see Cassie hop into the passenger side of Chadwick’s black truck before he takes off down the beach.

Jaden is silent on the way to the Watsons, his eyes locked on the road. I sit in the passenger seat, staring at his busted-up knuckles gripping the steering wheel, and gulp. I can’t believe we just drove off in the middle of the night with a boy I don’t know who knocked Chadwick’s lights out. Who even am I right now?

London, in the back seat, nose in her bright phone screen, doesn’t seem fazed.

“Um, you should drop us off a few houses away, so no one sees you,” I mumble.

“I know,” Jaden says, his voice hard. He closes his eyes for a quick moment, and then opens them. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

Somehow, I kinda feel bad for him. I have no clue what that fight was all about, and even though Jaden clearly came out the winner, he seemed to lose something much bigger in its place.

“It’s just … I’m sorry for what you saw back there. That ain’t me. But trust me when I say, he had it coming. What happened with him and Cassie … wasn’t cool.”

I frown. Chadwick seems too nice to do anything to anybody. In the back seat, London stares at Jaden, her lips tight.

Jaden drops us off at the end of the road. We walk quick, staying in the shadows, so not to set off the motion lights.

We slip into the house’s side door and up the back steps, creeping into our room. Safe.

I check the clock as I change into my pajamas, ready for bed. It’s midnight. I don’t think I’ve ever been out so late in my life.

London sits at the vanity, pinning up her hair. She sighs with a dizzy smile.

“Wow. Chadwick is so cool.”

I shrug and climb into bed. “Yeah, I guess.”

She whips around. “Are you insane? He was the coolest guy at that party! And he was hanging with us. Well, before you scared him off.”

“Yeah, he was cool and all. And he loves J-Roc. But … you saw the way he treated Jaden? Why couldn’t Jaden be at the party?”

“’Cause we don’t hang out with locals. We don’t hang out with the help.”

The words sound so nasty coming out of her mouth.

“The help? You trippin’. He’s a person!”

She sighs. “I don’t have the time to explain how things work around here. But if you want to belong, then you better get with the program. Chadwick thinks you’re cool, now everyone’s going to think you’re cool too.”

I swallow and nod with the understanding. If Chadwick thinks I’m cool, then maybe my time here won’t be so bad. At least not like the last few months at school.

Still … what happened with Chadwick and Cassie?

I wake up to the sun piercing through the window and the smell of crisp bacon. I thought I dreamt it all: the boat, the island, the party … But I turn over and look across the room. London’s bed is empty.

“Morning, Kaylani,” Mr. Watson says when I come downstairs. He’s sitting at the end of the table, scooping into a half of grapefruit.

London and Cassie are at the table too, dressed for the beach, looking fresh-faced, as if it wasn’t eight in the morning. As if we didn’t sneak back into the house at midnight. Or at least London and I did. No idea what time Cassie came home.

“Good morning,” I say with a yawn, and take my seat, still dressed in pj’s. Summers are for sleeping in and I refuse to change that.

Ms. Marguerite pours me a cup of orange juice as I help myself to some toast and eggs. Suddenly, Mrs. Watson staggers into the dining room, her face crumpled in worry.

Mr. Watson takes one look at her and straightens. “Everything okay, dear?”

She shakes her head. “That was the Polar Bear phone tree,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “Chadwick Cooper is missing.”

London drops her fork on her plate with a loud clang as the entire table freezes.

Mr. Watson sits back in his chair. “Chadwick? Dawn and Ernest’s grandson?”

“Yeah. His brother Miles said he went out last night but didn’t come home.”

For a moment, I forget how to breathe. Chadwick can’t be missing. We just saw him a few hours ago and he was fine.

Mr. Watson turns to me. “Did you girls run into Chadwick last night on Circuit?”

London jumps to answer before I can open my mouth. “No! We ran into Miles at the arcade. He invited us to Deion’s to hang at his pool.”

“Well, not today,” Mrs. Watson says. “Everyone is spreading out, looking for Chadwick. It’s not like him to not come home. His truck is missing too.”

She turns to Cassie. “Have you heard from Chadwick?”

Cassie butters her toast without looking up. “No. But there was a party last night by the bridge.”

Mrs. Watson stares at Cassie for a moment, her lips tight.

“Cassie, take the girls to the beach today.”

Cassie frowns, finally meeting her grandmother’s gaze. “Why? They can go by themselves.”

“’Cause … well, I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of them being alone and someone being missing. Better safe than sorry, dear.”

Cassie huffs, then glances across the table at me. “Well. Are you going to put on real clothes at some point today?”

London and Cassie set out their beach chairs under a red umbrella, both dressed in bikinis and sunglasses. London even tried to do her hair like Cassie’s, pulling it up into the kind of tight bun I’ve only seen on ballet dancers. Neither one of them has looked up much from their phones.

In front of us, a father plays paddleball with his son while the mother digs a moat around a little girl’s sandcastle. So many families are here on the beach today, hanging in the water, laughing, playing music, eating cold sandwiches and drinking lemonade. Something me and my parents used to do during the summer on Coney Island.

I wish Dad was here.

I lay out my beach blanket, soaking up the sun, trying to focus on my book, but too caught up in guilt. Poor Miles. He must be real worried about his brother. Shouldn’t we be out searching for Chadwick too? Mrs. Watson said “everybody”; why aren’t we a part of that? Maybe we can help.

I lean up on my forearms. “I think we should tell your grandma that we saw Chadwick last night.”

Cassie chuckles without bothering to look up. London is less chill in her response.

“No freaking way! You swore you wouldn’t say anything.” Her voice peaks when she’s mad.

“But I don’t like lying.”

“We know, Ms. Goody,” Cassie says. “But you didn’t lie. Grandma didn’t ask you anything about him.”

Not for nothing, but it looks real suspicious, the way she’s not even worried about Chadwick.

“Yeah, but we didn’t—”

“Look. Do you want my phone or not?” London snaps.

“Um, yeah, I do, but what if something’s really wrong and we don’t say nothing? That’s messed up!”

Cassie sighs, rips off her sunglasses, and leans forward.

“You are going to keep your mouth shut about last night,” she says through gritted teeth.

I’m a little speechless. Where is this attitude coming from?

“But … we could be the last people who saw him. We should be helping!”

“You don’t know that. So just drop it!”

London’s eyes widen, toggling between us.

Just. Drop. It. The words bring me back to Dad’s lawyer’s office. The way my mom tried to ask questions and he insisted that she “just drop it” and that he would handle it all. But I was there and wouldn’t let up. Who would want to frame Dad and why? Was there any proof? How long would he have to stay away? That’s when the lawyer sighed, smiled, and said, “I’m not used to being interrogated in my own office. You’ll make a great lawyer someday, kid.”

Now I narrow my eyes, square my shoulders, and lean forward to meet Cassie’s stare. “You drove away from the party with Chadwick. So, really, you’re the last person that saw him, aren’t you? Why don’t you know where he is?”

Cassie blinks back in surprise, glancing at a speechless London. She lets out a nervous chuckle.

“Look, he’s fine,” she says, waving a hand. “He probably crashed at someone’s house. It was late. He was tired.”

I press on. “You said you were going to make sure he got home. But how did you get home? Did he drive you? What time did you see him last?”

Cassie’s face gives nothing away, but her jaw tenses.

“Cass,” London starts. “Maybe you shou—”

“Everybody just needs to calm down,” Cassie says, her voice shifting to a lighter tone. “Chadwick sometimes disappears like this. It is NOT that serious. Don’t make a big deal out of nothing.”

A phone chirps in the distance. Then another. Then another. A woman gasps, loud enough to distract me. The crowd of beachgoers seem to stir, all staring at phones, whispering, faces in shock.

Cassie’s phone vibrates.

“Oh no,” she gasps.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It’s … Chadwick. They found him.”

“Oh, thank God,” London says with a smiling exhale. “He’s probably in big trouble now.”

From the corner of my eye, I see folks gathering their things. A creeping suspicion sets in. Something’s happened.

Cassie stares unblinking at her phone.

“No, no … I mean, they found … his body. At the bridge.” She says the words like she can’t believe what just came out her mouth.

All the color drains from London’s face. “You mean he’s dead?!” she cries.

Heads whip in our direction. London falls back in her seat, holding a hand over her face.

“Cassie,” she whispers. “Are you … sure?”

Cassie stares off into the ocean, her face unreadable. Then quickly, without one word, she packs up her stuff and leaves us on the beach.

London turns to me, breathless. “Let’ s go to the bridge.”

London and I pedal hard toward the bridge. We aren’t the only ones with this idea. Cars and bikes line the road as folks rush to catch a glimpse of … I don’t know what. The police cut off traffic, trying to keep everyone back. But you can still see police working. Collecting things by the big rocks covered in slime. Measuring and taking photos.

I’ve seen crime scene tape plenty growing up in Brooklyn. But here, it seems to be a rare sighting.

“Did he drown?” a teenager beside us asks her friend, not even whispering.

“No way,” the other girl answers. “Chadwick was an excellent swimmer. He’s been jumping off this bridge since he was six.”

London looks a bit green in the face.

That’s when it really hits me—someone I met, someone I knew, is now dead. We talked about houses. He loved J-Roc. And now he’s gone.

I glance around the beach, trying to make sense of the scene that just yesterday looked so pretty, all the people cheering, jumping off the bridge, chilling on the beach. Now police cars are parked in front of the footpath leading to the big boulders … wait, what’s that?

I stand on my tiptoes to get a better look at the black marks on the ground, leading from the railing into the road. They look like tire tracks. Like the ones Junior Diaz made on our block last summer with his dirt bike. Either the police don’t see them or don’t care but they definitely weren’t there yesterday. I remember.

“They’re saying it was a shark,” someone says behind us. “It took a bite out of him. The water was full of blood.”

My mouth goes dry as, next to me, London throws up.

News of Chadwick’s death covers the island like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over every square inch.

The next evening, as the sun begins to set, people gather at something called the Tabernacle, a large open-air church in the middle of the Campground Jaden had mentioned. Surrounding the church are dozens of those tiny gingerbread houses.

I can’t believe it. Within three days, I’m at my first memorial for a guy I met straight off the boat. The community, mostly Black folks, offer condolences to the Cooper family, who stand near the altar. Miles is there, wearing a white polo shirt, staring at the ground in a fog.

The Watsons make their rounds, offering words of encouragement and comfort. Everyone seems to know them, like they’re royalty, and for an insane moment, I wonder: If the Obamas were on the island, would they be here, offering comfort? Would this be my only chance to ask about Dad? I feel messed up for even thinking it.

Cassie sits in the very back, alone. This is super sad and Mom always said that everyone has their own way of grieving. But I’m not gonna front, I thought I would see more of a reaction from her. Tears, sobs, something. But all I see her doing is playing some mindless game on her phone.

London, sitting next to me, is also on her phone. She sighs as if she’s bored with people crying and sharing memories. We haven’t even been here twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, I catch bits of conversation from the crowd …

“The Coopers are having Chadwick’s funeral at home in Rhode Island. Then they’ll come back here for the rest of the summer.”

“That poor family. Chadwick was such a good kid.”

“Can you believe it? A shark!”

“But what was a shark doing by that bridge? My dad has been fishing in these waters since his grandmother settled here. He’s never once mentioned seeing a shark so close to the bay.”

“It doesn’t make much sense.”

Dad always said I’m a good ear hustler.

I wonder if anyone else can hear what these people are saying about Chadwick.

I take another quick peek behind me at Cassie. She’s still on her phone, like it’s just some regular day.

“Uh, is your sister okay?” I ask London.

London looks at me as if I asked a stupid question, then glances over her shoulder with a frown. But before she can answer, a boy about our age approaches us.

“Hey, London,” he says.

As usual, London tries to seem unimpressed. “Oh. Hey. Deion, this is Kaylani.”

Deion is light-skinned with curly dark blond hair and freckles, dressed like most of the preppy boys on the island. Boat shoes, polo shirt, and khaki shorts.

“Nice meeting you,” he says. “Did you guys pass by the bridge today? People were over there, putting out a lot of flowers and stuff. The cops are blocking it off. They may block it off for the whole summer while they figure out what happened.”

I picture the flowers piling up by the bridge’s railing, the balloons and candles flickering in the sea breeze. I’ve seen something like that before. A kid in my neighborhood was killed in a hit-and-run and there were hundreds of flowers placed in front of his school. Maybe Mrs. Watson will let me cut some flowers from her backyard to leave. If she’ll let us go by there again.

“Have you ever jumped off that bridge?” I ask.

“And break my neck?” Deion says quick. “No way!” He ducks his head with a wince. “Yikes! Too soon?”

London shakes her head. “Way to put your whole foot in your mouth.”

“Poor Miles,” Deion says with a sigh. “His brother was like his best friend. I heard people talking about it at the Stop & Shop. Everyone thinks he drowned. But there was blood. Lots of it. So it had to be a shark.”

I swallow, feeling dizzy.

“A shark?” London asks.

“That’s what they’re saying,” Deion admits. “They haven’t confirmed yet.”

“Welp. That’s it for me,” London says. “I’ll be on land for the rest of the summer.”

Deion purses his lips. “How’s Cassie taking it?”

London glances back at Cassie again, uncertainty passing over her face. She turns back to Deion, tipping her nose up.

“She’s fine,” she says, all defensive, before jumping up and storming away to join Cassie.

Deion shakes his head. “Yo, London is always gonna London.”

I chuckle. “I see you know her well.”

“No offense,” Deion says, “but probably the only reason the Watsons brought you out here is ’cause nobody can stand her stuck-up butt and she needs company. Not to make it sound like they’re using you or nothing.”

I stifle a laugh. “That’s okay. I ain’t no dummy. I peeped the game early.”

Deion grins with approval. “See, I knew I was gonna like—Miles! Hey, bro!”

I whirl around and see Miles standing behind us, hands in his pockets.

“Uh, hey, Miles,” I manage to say. “I’m so sorry.”

Miles glances at the crowds staring at him. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt, his eyes glassy.

“Um, can we get out of here?” he mumbles.

I follow the boys out of the Tabernacle and down one of the paths, leading deeper into the Campground, where I can see more of the gingerbread houses. The first house is white with pink-and-purple trim. The next is green and lavender, followed by teal with peach.

“Feels like I’m in Candyland or something,” I say with a laugh. “These houses are so tiny. Smaller than my apartment. But so colorful. Oh, look, that one has a little balcony.”

“That one looks exactly like my sister’s dollhouse,” Deion jokes. “I can’t believe people really live in these. My dad is six-eight, two hundred and something pounds. He probably couldn’t even fit through the doors.”

I think about Jaden. He lives around here somewhere. But the last image I have of Jaden in my head is him swinging on Chadwick. The rage on his face …

“It … just doesn’t make sense,” Miles mumbles.

Deion and I freeze. They’re the first words he’s spoken since we left the church.

“We’ve done that jump plenty of times,” Miles continues, stopping to lean against a white fence in front of a gray-and-blue cottage. “Even with my dad. It’s scary at first, but then you can’t stop doing it, you know.”

I take a deep breath before daring to ask the question. “But … why would he jump at night? Sounds … dangerous.”

“He was a really good swimmer.” Miles shakes his head. “Something had to have happened. A shark … kinda makes sense.” He looks to Deion. “That’s what people are saying, right?”

Deion confirms with a nod. “Some people saw a shark on the ferry coming in a couple days ago. But it wasn’t the kind that, like, hurts people.”

I remember the way my body locked down at the sight of that shark fin peeking out of the water. Was that even a fraction of what Chadwick felt before the shark attacked him? I rub the shiver out of my arms.

Miles stands straighter. “Well, then … maybe they can catch the shark. Find it before it hurts somebody else!”

I instantly regret not telling anyone about the shark we saw. I should have taken it more seriously. If I’d mentioned it to Chadwick when I met him, would he have still made that risky jump at night?

“Somebody had to be with him when he jumped,” I think aloud, pacing. “There were tire tracks by the bridge and his car wasn’t parked nearby. So someone had to have moved it.”

Miles frowns. “Wait, how do you know what his car looks like?”

Damn.

The boys stare at me, waiting. I can’t tell them I was at the party that night. What if it gets back to London and she refuses to share her phone with me? Dad won’t be able to reach me.

“I, uh … he came by the house earlier that day.”

“Oh. Right. ’Cause of Cassie probably.” Miles rolls his eyes.

I let out an uneasy laugh. It wasn’t a lie. Cassie was there. They don’t need to know the rest of the details. But still, my stomach tightens up in knots. Don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep up this act.

“Yeah, what’s up with them?” I ask, hoping to shift the focus off me.

“Cassie and Chad used to go together last summer,” Miles says.

“Really?”

“She was in love with him, bad,” Deion says. “I heard the grown-ups talking about how she didn’t take their breakup too well.”

“Why’d they break up?” I ask Miles.

Miles shrugs. “I don’t know. I think the Watsons said Chadwick wasn’t a good influence. They didn’t like that he hung around the house so much.”

I remember the way Chadwick gave me a quick tour and how Mrs. Watson interrupted us.

“Hey, this is kind of weird,” Miles says quietly, “but …

Chadwick got me a couple of tickets for the African American Heritage Trail tour tomorrow. Want to go?”

Deion and I share an uneasy glance. Miles notices.

“I think I should still go … in his honor, you know?”

Deion rubs the back of his head. “Sorry, bruh. Can’t. Going clamming with my dad and grandpa.”

Miles nods, his face sullen. I should stay home and catch up on studying. I’ve barely pulled out my flash cards since I’ve been here. But … I hate the thought of Miles doing the tour alone.

I shrug one shoulder. “Well. I’m down, if that’s okay.”

Miles seems to brighten. “Cool. Come on, before my parents start looking for me.”

We take a few steps toward the church before he stops short.

“And you’re right, Kaylani,” Miles says. “Chadwick wouldn’t go to the bridge by himself. It’s no fun jumping alone.”

“So that means,” I say, my voice almost choking. “Someone watched him and then … didn’t say anything? Didn’t try to help him?”

The boys go silent, their faces pale. They hadn’t thought about it that way. I hate to be the one to point it out. I hate to be the one to think the worst.

I also hate thinking that Cassie was the last one with him.

“Hey, Kay-Kay, how’s it going? Are you having fun?”

I sit in Mr. Watson’s office, pressing the phone to my ear. It feels so good to hear Mom’s voice. I want to tell her everything, about the island, about Chadwick … but I go straight to the point.

“Yeah. How’s Dad?”

She chuckles. “He’s good! Well, as good as he can be. I talked to him yesterday.”

“Really, what did he say? Did he hear from his lawyer yet? Oh! And I have a number he can call me at now, so he doesn’t have to call the house.”

“Kaylani, I thought we—”

“You promised.” I cut her off before she can give me the lecture. “If he doesn’t call, fine. But at least give it to him. It’s London’s cell phone. So I won’t be sitting around the house waiting for him. Just like we said.”

She sighs. “Okay. What’s the number?”

I put Mom on hold, grab a piece of paper off Mr. Watson’s desk, and run into the kitchen.

London is at the counter, snapping peas, while Cassie and Ms. Marguerite work on a filling for a strawberry rhubarb pie. I must have caught them mid-gossip as they giggle over their farmers market goods.

“Hey, London, I need your phone number.”

London lets out a dramatic sigh. “For?”

“You said I could use your phone.”

“Um, to call other people,” she says, all sassy-like. “Not to give out my number to everyone.”

I resist rolling my eyes. “Well, my dad needs the number. That’s the only way he can call me.”

The kitchen goes quiet.

London blinks slow. “You want to give my number to your … dad?”

“Yeah.” I try to keep the duh out of my voice.

London’s eyes flicker to Cassie, then back to me. “Your dad. Who’s in … in prison?”

In an instant, the room feels colder. “Uh, yeah.”

London’s lips twitch and I can tell she’s about to back out of our deal.

I cross my arms. “Or I can talk to your grandma about—”

“London,” Cassie snaps, cutting me off. Her eyes widen and she nods. “Just … give her the number.”

London swallows, biting her lip. “Okay, fine,” she says, and tells me her number.

“Thanks,” I say bitterly.

“Um, he won’t share it with, like, anyone else, right?”

“Anyone like who?”

She twists her fingers together. “I just don’t want a bunch of … criminals calling my phone, that’s all. What if they try to find me? That happens, you know. People go away to prison, and they become worse than they were before.”

The entire kitchen freezes. My lungs feel like they’ve shattered inside my chest.

“Nice, London,” Cassie mutters, shaking her head as she turns back to the stove.

London winces but knows she can’t take back the stinging words.

She thinks my dad is a real criminal, a dangerous one, when she doesn’t even know him, doesn’t know what happened. I rush out of the kitchen, and back to Mr. Watson’s office like a stiff piece of cardboard.

Don’t let them see you cry.

“This, as many of you know, is Inkwell Beach,” our tour guide says the next morning, motioning toward the water from the front seat of the minibus. “There are a few versions of how this beach got its famous name. Some say, when Black people started coming to the island and frequenting the beach, white people in town thought it started to look like ink on a paper. Others feel it got its name from all the Harlem Renaissance writers who visited the island and found inspiration, writing with ink from a pen.”

“Did you know that?” I ask London, who’s sitting next to me in the back row of the bus.

“No,” she groans, slipping on her sunglasses, unimpressed.

When I told Mrs. Watson I was taking a tour with Miles, she insisted that London come along with us. I don’t mind, since it keeps me near London’s phone, but for London, you would’ve thought it was the end of the world.

The African American Heritage Trail of Martha’s Vineyard is a tour that goes around the island, stopping at different historical sites. There are thirty sites on the trail but we’re on the tour that stays in the Oak Bluffs area.

We started at the Overton House, a mansion that overlooks the Inkwell, where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Jesse Jackson, Malcolm X, and Harry Belafonte had once stayed. Then we went to Shearer Cottage, the first African American–owned guesthouse on Martha’s Vineyard, where people of color were welcomed. Then to Powell Cottage, owned by Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., the first African American congressman. Then to the Dorothy West Home, which belonged to a writer from the Harlem Renaissance.

At each stop, I can’t help thinking of Dad. He’d eat all of this up! Unlike London, who’s practically falling asleep while leaning against the glass window.

Sitting in the row in front of us, Miles takes pictures of every stop, like he’s an official photographer.

“This is pretty cool, Miles. Thanks for inviting me.”

He smiles. “Chad always talked about the work he did with the heritage society. He was really proud of it.”

I want to ask more but the tour guide cuts in.

“Next stop is rather new to our tour as it’s still in the process of being declared an official landmark. But we couldn’t resist adding it. It’s the McBride Manor.”

The bus turns a corner and starts heading up the hill, toward the East Chop Lighthouse. I lean forward as the bus comes to a stop right outside the Watsons’ house! London sits up straight, ripping off her sunglasses while Miles takes photos.

“That’s your—” I start.

“Shh!” London says, staying focused.

The tour guide points to the Watsons’ porch. “The McBride home was owned by Alice McBride. It was passed down from her father, one of the first Black preachers on Martha’s Vineyard. Alice McBride raised money to help African Americans during the civil rights movement take a break and visit the island. She believed rest and play were the only ways to achieve freedom. McBride died in a tragic drowning accident. Since she never married and had no children, the home was bequeathed to the Watson family, who still summer here to this day.”

“What does ‘bequeath’ mean?” London whispers.

“I think it means to give. Like, in a will.”

London stares at me for a moment, frowning, as if thinking the same thing. Didn’t her grandparents buy this house?

Both London and Miles are quiet as we walk to our bikes parked on Circuit Ave. I wonder if London’s ever questioned how her family got their house. Then again, why would she? All she has are happy memories here. And Miles, well, he’ll probably never forget this summer and all that he lost.

As we’re about to hop on our bikes, I see Deion outside the arcade.

“Deion!” I say, waving.

“Oh God,” London grumbles, rolling her eyes.

Deion waves to us, rushing over.

“I thought you were going clamming with your dad?” Miles asks.

“I did! We just got back,” he says, all out of breath. “But! Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“A shark was spotted! On South Beach!”

London gasps. I can barely make a sound.

“Wh-wh-what?” Miles cries.

“Yup! It was chasing after a seal. Everyone saw!”

London rips out her phone. “It’s gotta be on Insta by now,” she says, and starts scrolling. “I can’t believe we’re in the middle of a freaking Jaws movie.”

“Right! I’m meeting my dad by the docks. We’re taking the boat to go look. Catch y’all later!”

As we watch Deion run off, Miles turns to me.

“Maybe it’s the same one that … that attacked Chad,” he says, sounding nervously hopeful. “Maybe they’re going to catch it and kill it.”

“But those are huge sharks,” I say. “Seems weird that it would attack someone by the bridge.”

“What’s weird about it?” London asks.

“I don’t know much about sharks, but if a shark was to attack something … or someone, wouldn’t it eat it all?”

London and Miles stare at me and I know I’ve said too much.

“That was really dark and twisted,” London says, shoving her phone in her pocket and storming away.

Miles turns to me, his face a little paler.

“I’m sorry, Miles. I didn’t mean to—”

“Come with me to the library,” he says, grabbing my wrist. “I need a computer now.”

The Oak Bluffs Public Library is across the street from a large cemetery. You would think it would feel empty and haunted but it’s actually warm and inviting. Bright lights, art on the walls, and music. Walking in makes me realize that with everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had any time to study for my law camp entrance exam. I can’t let all the drama on the island distract me from my goal, #operationFREEDAD. I have to study back at the house tonight, no matter what.

Miles drops my sweaty hand and makes a beeline toward a row of computers.

“What are we doing?” I ask as he hops on a computer. He starts typing lightning fast on the keyboard. Pictures of sharks pop up on the screen.

I swallow. “Uh, Miles, is this … a good idea?”

He leans closer to the screen. “Look, it says here, ‘Great white sharks tend to attack their prey from below, by swimming at high speeds before launching themselves. This tactic catches the animal by surprise with one bite.’”

I read the title of the article—“‘Sharks and Their Hunting Techniques.’

“‘Sharks circle their prey, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and frequently approaching from below before they ambush.’”

This feels morbid … but like Mom always says, people grieve in their own way. You have to let them be.

I sigh, patting Miles’s shoulder. While he goes down a rabbit hole, I hop on the computer next to him. I still can’t get today’s heritage tour out of my head. It feels like I have more questions than answers. I fire up a browser and type Alice McBride Martha’s Vineyard.

But nothing comes up. Not one article or picture. Maybe the tour guide mixed up the houses. Maybe there’s been a mistake. If it’s not online, how did Chadwick expect me to find out?

When I make it back to the Watsons’ house, London has already joined Cassie by the pool, their faces to the sun, working on tans they don’t need.

“Ah! Look who’s back. Hello, dear, how was the tour?”

Mrs. Watson is out in her garden, messing in the dirt. I’ve seen her out here a few times, picking flowers or herbs for dinner. Crouching next to her is Jaden. He’s breaking up the ground as if to plant more flowers.

“It was cool,” I say.

Jaden stands with a grin, wiping his forehead. “Hey, Kaylani. What’s up?”

He’s talking to me like I didn’t see him that night, like he didn’t break Chadwick’s nose or drive us home with busted knuckles.

“Uh, hey,” I say, playing along. “What’s up?”

“What kind of tour was it exactly?” Mrs. Watson asks, glancing back at London. “My granddaughter isn’t big on words. She can be really shy.”

Maybe Mrs. Watson doesn’t know her granddaughter as well as she thinks.

“It was the African American Heritage Trail.”

Mrs. Watson and Jaden quickly throw each other a look.

“Oh,” Mrs. Watson says. “London didn’t mention that.”

“Is there something wrong?” I ask.

“No, no,” Mrs. Watson says with a light laugh. “It’s just … well, there’s so much else to do on the island. So much to see!”

“Right,” Jaden agrees. “You should take one of them boats that looks at whales.”

The scars on Jaden’s knuckles still seem fresh. I think of Chadwick and remember our last conversation like it happened yesterday.

“Mrs. Watson, how did you know the original owner of your house?” I ask.

Mrs. Watson pauses for the briefest moment before turning to me. “I didn’t, dear. We never met her. We were in different circles way back then. Why do you ask?”

That’s weird. Why would someone who didn’t know the Watsons give them her house? Dad mentioned Mrs. Watson was old and didn’t have the best memory. Or maybe the tour guide was mistaken about who the original owner was. Especially since there was nothing about her online.

I shrug with a smile. “No reason. It’s no big deal.”

Mrs. Watson smiles and nods at her flowers. “You see these here? These are called hydrangeas. When I planted these way back when, they were little bitty things. But now they’re almost as big as the house! When we first moved in, it was nothing but dry dirt.”

“They’re beautiful,” I say, touching one of the flowers, letting it sit in my hand like a puffy snowball.

“Your grandma taught me a lot about gardening,” Mrs. Watson says. “She helped maintain the community garden next to the church for a long time. See, you have to give the soil room to grow,” she says, raking the ground with some type of stick with prongs. “Means, you have to clean up the weeds as much as possible. Isn’t that right, Jaden?”

Jaden isn’t paying attention. He’s busy staring at Cassie, who’s laying poolside.

Mrs. Watson watches Jaden stare for a moment. She sighs, then turns back to her weeding.

It’s clear that when someone dies on the island, even if that someone is a teenager, no one mourns for too long. First week, there was the memorial, then people released white balloons at Inkwell Beach. But by the next week, Chadwick felt like a distant memory. People were back at the beach, back in the water, back at the bridge … jumping off into the lagoon.

And I forget all about the Watsons’ charity soiree until it sneaks up on me.

The night of the event, Mr. and Mrs. Watson, Cassie, London, and I get to the art gallery early to help set up.

The large gallery reminds me of the Brooklyn Museum, with all its wacky murals, fancy framed photos, and bizarre sculptures. I read prices of some of the work. One tiny painting is worth ten thousand dollars!

I yank at the hem of my dress.

Mrs. Watson made London lend me (to London’s horror) one of her outfits—a black dress with tiny yellow and white flowers. They wanted me to wear heels but I insisted on my flip-flops. You could see the disappointment in Mrs. Watson’s eyes as we piled into the car.

London is wearing a bright pink dress, and she spent all afternoon flat ironing her hair and doing her makeup. Cassie is wearing a red dress that looks a little too grown-up for her. Mrs. Watson must have thought the same thing. Her eyebrow rose when she saw her.

Gallery staff are setting up a table by the entrance, and caterers are putting out drinks and fancy snacks. In the corner, a small jazz band is getting ready. Mrs. Watson, her hair and makeup done up nice, is busy rearranging her flower decorations.

“Okay, ladies,” Mr. Watson says, gesturing for me, Cassie, and London to sit at the table by the entrance. “We have about thirty presale tickets. The rest, people will pay upon arrival. They’ll hand you money or checks. You’ll write down their name and donation amount in this ledger,” he adds, pointing to a book on the table, “then drop the money in this black box. Cassie, you’ll help keep accurate account of the money. London and Kaylani, you will handle the tickets.”

“How many people are you expecting?” I ask.

“Well over a hundred.” He chuckles. “No one misses a Watson gathering.”

“Wow. Are some of the presale tickets the ones Chadwick dropped off?”

Mr. Watson frowns. “What do you mean?”

“The day he stopped by … he said he was dropping off tickets?”

“Oh. Oh yes! I’m sure they’re already calculated in the total. Thank you for reminding me. Now, if you have any questions, just look for me or Mrs. Watson,” Mr. Watson says. “We’ll be around the room, mingling and making sure the good people open up their wallets. Got it?”

“Got it,” we say in unison.

“Oh, and girls,” Mr. Watson says, standing proud. “Thank you for helping tonight. You have no idea what this event means to us.”

“No problem, Grandpa,” Cassie says, beaming. “I love helping.”

Mr. Watson nods and heads to the back of the gallery to talk to the caterers.

“You suck-up,” London mutters with a smirk.

Cassie gives her a look. “I wasn’t lying. I love that Grandma and Grandpa raise money for good causes. Wish Mom and Dad did this more. They’re only good at spending money on themselves. Do you even see them here right now?”

London winces, checking to see if I overheard them. But I keep my eyes focused on a red-and-black painting with roots plastered to a canvas. Something I could probably do in art class and make a fortune off of.

“Kaylani, dear,” Mrs. Watson calls, approaching quick. “I almost forgot. Your mother called right before we left. Your father is going to reach out sometime this evening.”

I jump in my skin. “He is?!”

“Yes. I told her we’ll be out this evening, but she said you gave him London’s number?”

“Yes! Thanks, Mrs. Watson!” I glance at London sitting beside me, thumbs tapping furiously on her screen. I’m filled with joy and panic at the same time.

At seven p.m. sharp, doors open, and the first set of guests begin to trickle in until there’s a line outside. Some of the people I recognize from Chadwick’s memorial. I wonder if the Coopers will come.

Or the OBAMAS!

But I’m not going to lie, I didn’t expect even half of these people to show. I mean, a kid died a few days ago and the adults are laughing, drinking wine, and dancing to music.

Life goes on, I guess.

But I can’t worry about all that. Tonight I get to talk to Dad!

“What’s up, Kaylani!” Deion, dressed in a bright blue suit and red tie, walks in the door with his parents.

“Hey, Deion! Is Miles coming too?”

“Nah, he’s still in Rhode Island,” he says softly.

Oh, right, I think, swallowing hard. The Coopers went there for Chadwick’s funeral.

Deion and his parents join the rest of the party. When I turn to London, her seat is empty. A lump builds in my throat. Where is she?

I spot her in the corner, staring at her phone in a fit of giggles. I jump up and rush over to her.

“London, what are you doing?”

“OMG! There’s this new dance that everyone’s trying but they don’t really know how to dance, so they look a mess. It’s hilarious. You have to see.”

I suck my teeth. “You’re scrolling through dances? We have a job to do!”

“It’s not a real job,” she says, waving her phone around. I can just imagine it slipping out of her hand and crashing onto the floor.

“Would you be careful with that thing? And what’s your battery life right now?”

“Relax,” she says, waving me off. “I have my charger in my bag. I think.”

“You think?!”

Mr. Watson strolls up to us. “Girls, why is Cassie at the table alone?”

“Oh. I just needed a little break,” London says, grinning. “Dealing with all these people is exhausting. Plus, everyone’s entitled to a lunch hour, right, Grandpa?”

Clearly, London has never worked a day in her life.

Mr. Watson crosses his arms. “Young lady, do I have to pry that phone out of your hands this evening?”

“No!” I scream and several party guests turn to look at me. “I, uh, I mean, no, sir. We got everything under control.”

Mr. Watson nods and I grab London’s elbow, dragging her back to the table.

“What’s wrong with you?” London asks, snatching her elbow away and straightening her hair.

“My dad’s gonna call. Can you chill?”

“All right, all right. Calm down.”

As the night goes on, I keep one eye on the door and one eye on London, not wanting to let her out my sight. I’ll finally get to talk to Dad! I have so much to tell him, and so many questions at the same time. London keeps giggling at her phone, barely looking up as more guests arrive.

“Hey, Lani,” Cassie says, stuffing more envelopes into the box. “Go get Grandma. We’re almost out of tickets.”

I glance at London, wanting nothing more than to drag her with me. But I know that’s a fight I’m going to lose.

“Be right back,” I tell London. “If he calls, come find me!”

I don’t know if she heard me and I don’t want to waste time checking, so I jump up and weave around the crowded room.

I find Mrs. Watson talking to a group of women by a painting of a Black girl with flowers growing out of her head.

“Why, hello, dear,” she says to me, then turns to the others. “Ladies, this is Kaylani. She’s staying with us for the summer.”

“Hi,” I say breathlessly.

“Hello, sweetheart,” one of the older women says. “Is this another Parker recruit?” she asks Mrs. Watson.

“Maybe. We’ll see,” Mrs. Watson says with a wink.

I stand up straighter. Really? Mrs. Watson thinks I could go to a fancy private school? She thinks I could belong to this type of crowd? I never thought of that before.

“Kaylani, is everything okay?” Mrs. Watson asks.

“Cassie said we’re almost out of tickets,” I sputter out fast.

“Oh! Let me run to the back. Ladies, excuse me for a moment?”

The ladies give me a quick nod and continue their conversation as if I’m not standing right there.

“My little Rita got into Harvard. Can you believe it?”

“Our Jack and Jill chapter is hosting a fundraiser like this in the fall.”

“My sorority sister has a house out in Vineyard Haven. I think she paid over two million for it.”

I wish Brooklyn looked and felt this way. Don’t get me wrong, I’m BK all day. But watching all these rich Black people walk around in fancy clothes, living in million-dollar homes, driving cars that cost as much as some people make in a year … makes me realize how different they are. No one is broke, or worried about how they’re going to put food on the table, or has a father in prison. Everyone here glows like they ate the sun for dinner.

But on the other hand, they sure have a lot of rules to follow, and it seems like everyone is just out to impress. Bragging and fronting, rumors flying, all trying to one-up each other. They seem harmless, but you never know.

Much like that shark I saw on the ferry.

Mrs. Watson returns and passes me an envelope of additional tickets. If I calculated right, she’s going to walk away with almost fifty thousand dollars.

Maybe I could apply for the scholarship. The Watsons looked out for Dad. Gave him chances he wouldn’t have otherwise. But … Dad doesn’t fit in a crowd like this. Do I?

Thinking of Dad, I swim through the crowd, rushing back to London. I can’t miss his call tonight. I just can’t!

“Hey,” I say over the music as I jump back into my seat. “Any calls?”

London looks up from her phone. “Huh? Uh, no. Not yet.”

My shoulders slump as I check the time. Lights-out in prison is at nine. “My dad should’ve called by now.”

London shrugs. “Maybe he got busy.”

“We used to talk every day,” I say quietly.

“Psst. I live with my parents and I don’t talk to them every day. Relax. He has a lot going on. Or he’s tired of talking to you. I mean, he probably gotta act like everything is okay, even though it’s clearly not, because of where he’s living nowadays. Maybe he needs a vacation from you.”

For a change, I don’t blow her off, because she might have a point. After Dad’s sentencing, Mom spent weeks trying to convince him to let us visit him, and he still refused. Said it was just too hard; it would break his heart. So we settled on daily phone calls. But I can tell that making those calls every day is taking a toll.

“Maybe you’re right,” I mumble, fighting back tears.

Just then I notice Cassie’s seat is empty. “Where’s Cassie?”

London shrugs. “I don’t know.”

But I’ve already spotted her in the far corner, standing near the manager’s office … with Jaden. I almost didn’t recognize him, dressed in his best button-down shirt and khaki pants that don’t fit him, like he’s heading to church for the first time in years. When did he get here?

Cassie seems angry. Jaden tries to rub her arms, but she slaps his hand away. I’m surprised to see them together. Cassie doesn’t acknowledge him when he’s at the house. But now, in the shadows, they look like they talk often.

Or maybe too much.

“Girls!” Mrs. Watson calls upstairs the next evening. “Come down here.”

Across the bedroom, London gives me a look. Mrs. Watson’s voice sounded sharper than usual.

“What’s going on?” I ask, stuffing my study notes back in my bag. I thought I would have at least an hour before dinner to catch up.

“No clue,” she says.

I hear Cassie’s door swing open and we rush to follow her into the living room, where two white men in suits are waiting. The hair on the back of my neck prickles at the sight of them. They look real official. If my grandma were here, she’d call them shark suits. Nothing about this says good news.

Mr. Watson stands beside them, his arms folded.

“Cassie. London. Kaylani. These two detectives have a few questions for you.”

My stomach drops so hard I sway, bumping into a shocked London. I knew we should have come forward with what we saw!

Cassie frowns, holding her stance. “About?”

The detective with reddish hair and freckles steps forward. “It’s about Chadwick Cooper. May we sit?”

He gestures toward the sofas. I glance at Mrs. Watson, who is standing in the hallway wearing a troubled expression.

Don’t talk to the police without a lawyer. That’s what my dad would say. That’s what my mock trial teacher would say. But … wouldn’t asking for one make us look suspicious?

I sit down slowly, trying to gather my thoughts from everything I learned in the mock trial workshop. If I was a lawyer right now, a real one, what would I do?

I scope out the scene. If this was an official interview, we’d be down at the police station and they’d read us our rights …

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you …”

This must be an informational interview. So nothing we say can be used against us. Still, I want to give them nothing. I don’t trust anyone after what happened with Dad.

But I don’t have to say anything, because Cassie starts talking for us.

“What do you want to know?” Cassie says, her voice icy, nodding at her sister. “They’re little kids. They don’t have anything to do with this.”

The red-haired detective raises an eyebrow. “But you do?”

“If you’re here, I guess you know something that I don’t,” she shoots back.

“Cassie,” Mr. Watson warns. “You will mind your manners.”

Cassie glances at him, then tips her chin up.

The second detective chuckles. He’s extra tall, with a buzz cut and big ears. “No, she’s right. These two don’t have much to offer us as far as information. But they were witnesses.”

“So,” the redheaded detective starts. “We confirmed that there was a party on the beach the night Chadwick went missing. And you were there?”

Cassie nods. No sense in lying.

“And you brought your sister and her friend?”

Mrs. Watson scowls, her arms crossing. I gulp loud enough for everyone to hear. We’re in big trouble.

“Yeah. But they weren’t drinking. They didn’t stay long either.”

I press my palms into my thighs to keep from talking.

“Witnesses say that there was a fight between Chadwick Cooper and Jaden Gibbons. Chadwick suffered an injury to his face.”

“Yeah. Jaden punched him in the nose. I think it was broken.”

“What happened after the fight?”

Cassie shrugs. “Nothing. It ended and everyone went home.”

“How did you and the girls make it home?”

Cassie pauses for a moment, her face still expressionless.

“I asked Jaden to take the girls home. I trust him, he’s been working for my grandma for years. I stayed behind to make sure Chadwick was okay, then went home.”

Mr. Watson looks as if steam is about to shoot out of his ears.

“When and where did you leave Chadwick?” the buzz-cut detective asks Cassie.

“Right after. He stopped bleeding, so I left.”

“Did you get in his truck?”

She shook her head. “No.”

The detective gives her a stern look.

“We found your fingerprints inside his truck. You want to try that again?”

Beside me, London stops breathing.

Cassie’s lips press together as she sits up straighter. It’s like nothing can rattle this girl. I wish I could be this … invincible.

“I got in his truck because … I wanted to make sure he was okay. His nose was in pretty bad shape. He said he was going to take me home, but he pulled into the parking lot of the Nomans. Kept saying he needed to talk to me. Alone. I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I told him that and I left.”

The red-haired detective scribbles down some notes. “How’d you get home?”

This is the part I worry about most. If Cassie couldn’t handle my interrogation, how is she going to handle theirs?

But Cassie doesn’t break a sweat. “I tried to call a cab but then Jaden drove by. He gave me a ride home.”

London’s head snaps in her direction.

“Jaden just happened to drive by at that exact time you needed him?” the officer says, raising an eyebrow.

“Um, you act like this island is the size of Texas,” Cassie snaps.

“Watch your tone, young lady,” Mr. Watson warns.

She takes a deep breath. “Fine. Jaden dropped the girls at home and then he came back. I guess to make sure I was okay.”

“What time was this?” the officer says.

Cassie shrugs. “I’m not sure. My phone was dead.”

Buzz Cut cocks his head to the side. “You tried to call a cab but your phone was dead?”

“It died while I was trying,” she says matter-of-factly. “You know how the reception can be around here.”

The detectives nod, as if agreeing with her.

“How long were you with Jaden?” the other detective asks.

“Not long. It only takes fifteen minutes to get home from the beach without traffic.”

“And you don’t know where he went afterward?”

She scoffs. “We’re not friends. Like I said, he works for my grandma. That’s all.”

Mrs. Watson stares, a hand up to her gaping mouth. But she doesn’t say a word.

“Were you and Chadwick a couple?” Redhead asks.

“No.”

“No? People said you were dating last summer.”

Cassie blinks, then glances at Mrs. Watson for a brief moment.

“Summer love,” she says. “I hadn’t seen him since last year.”

The detectives nod at each other.

“Thank you, Cassie. You’ve helped a lot.” Redhead turns to Mr. Watson. “Can we speak outside?”

Mr. Watson turns to us. “Girls, go up to your rooms. We will discuss all this later.”

I jump up after London, rushing up the stairs, Cassie on our heels. Can’t believe I’m about to be grounded while I’m on vacation.

“Psst!” Cassie whispers and waves us into her room.

We tiptoe in and as soon as the door closes, London breaks down.

“Omg, Cassie, I—”

“Shhhh!” she hisses and points to the window.

I instantly catch her meaning. The window faces the driveway of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Watson are out there talking to the police.

Cassie, London, and I gather by the window, staying out of sight and listening.

“You should hear it from us,” Redhead says. “Chadwick’s death is being ruled a homicide.”

Homicide. That means murder.

The house feels colder than it ever has before.

“But they said he jumped,” Mrs. Watson gasps. “You think someone killed the boy?”

“Outside of the injuries he sustained in the fight with Jaden, he suffered blunt force trauma to the back of the head.”

“Oh my God.” Mrs. Watson shudders.

“There was no evidence of water in his lungs,” the detective continues. “Which means he was dead before he hit the water. I’m not going to get into the particulars. But this wasn’t a shark attack, as much as someone tried to make it seem that way.”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Watson asks. “They’ve been spotting sharks all around the island for months!”

“Sharks don’t leave food on their plate. They lick it clean. He was found whole with just a bite.”

I swallow, feeling the room spin. London’s head snaps in my direction.

“Just like you said,” she whispers, and Cassie hushes us.

“Why would anyone … Chadwick was a good boy,” Mrs. Watson cries.

“I’m going to be straight with you. Your granddaughter wasn’t exactly forthcoming with all this information. And it appears she was the last person to see Chadwick Cooper alive. Most of the facts she mentioned do align with what we know. We did find Chadwick’s car at Nomans, but his keys were missing and were not on his person.”

“Plus, many people remember her … reaction to their breakup last year,” the other detective chimes in.

Mr. Watson straightens at that. “Of course. Folks find any excuse to talk about us.”

That’s called hearsay! I studied this last week. Hearsay is when someone gives a statement about an incident but they didn’t actually witness it, only heard about it. It’s like gossip. It’s usually not allowed as real evidence. So the police can’t use Cassie’s breakup against her. But they know about it, which gives them reason to question her.

“Cassie was heartbroken,” Mrs. Watson explains. “Girls react differently to their first heartbreak. No one’s perfect!”

I glance up at Cassie and she meets my gaze, her eyes hard but glassy. Is she about to cry?

“Do we need to get a lawyer involved?” Mr. Watson asks, his tone serious.

Yes, I want to scream through the window. You need a lawyer and a good one.

“No need yet,” the red-haired detective says. “We’re still investigating. But I won’t lie, many people pointed us in Cassie’s direction and find her behavior … interesting, to say the least.”

After the police left, Mr. Watson chewed us out. Cassie was grounded. For how long, who knows. London’s curfew—and mine—was pushed up to seven p.m., which basically meant once dinner was done, we had to stay at the house. I was relieved. I thought they’d take London’s phone or send me back to Brooklyn.

Not that I wouldn’t mind going home.

London stares out the window of our room at the setting sun.

She sniffles. “There was a Jack and Jill party last year, the all-white party. There was this girl from Rhode Island who liked Chadwick. Kept saying she would’ve been a better fit for him than Cassie. It wouldn’t be long-distance. And Chadwick thought she was right. So he broke up with Cassie. And Cassie made this whole big scene. Grandpa had to pick her up. We went back home for the rest of the summer.”

I sit at the edge of her bed and she turns to me.

“Everyone knows Cassie was obsessed with Chadwick.” She shakes her head, tears in her eyes. “But Cassie wouldn’t hurt Chadwick. Not in a million years! I have to help her.”

“Help her?”

“Yeah! People are going to be running around, talking about her again. I don’t know if she can take it.”

I sigh. “Well, you know what you have to do, right?”

“No. What?”

“Find out what really happened to Chadwick.”

She breathes out, nodding. “And you have to help me.”

When they first arrested Dad, there were so many questions. Who, what, where, why, and how? His lawyers dug deep. They kept saying that logically he couldn’t have stolen the money from the firm. But the other lawyers, they dug deeper and found things that didn’t add up.

“All you need is proof that you didn’t do it,” Dad’s lawyer once said. But Dad didn’t know where to look.

I know London thinks her sister walks on water, and I’ll never understand why. But I know what it feels like to believe way down in the pit of your heart that someone is innocent.

That’s why I waited until London and Cassie were relaxing by the pool the next day, noses in their phones … to sneak into Cassie’s room.

Ever since the night of the party, Cassie’s been acting strange. Like she knows more than she says she does. London and I aren’t exactly friends, but she’s doing me a favor letting me use her phone. In some weird way, I feel like I owe her.

I also owe it to Miles, to help him find out the truth.

I cross through the connecting bathroom and Cassie’s door opens with a soft creak. Her room is narrow, sitting right near the back stairs. Makes sense how she was able to sneak out so easily. The room is pretty tidy, bed made, not one piece of clothing on the floor, nothing like a regular teen’s room.

I check out her tiny desk—a few books, a makeup bag, a phone charger. Normal stuff.

I slide one of the dresser drawers open. It’s full of bikinis and beachwear. Except in the far corner, a glint of metal catches my eye. Car keys? Does she have a car?

I read the label and gulp. They’re car keys to an SUV. One that’s just like Chadwick’s. At least, I think it’s the same. It was so dark, I didn’t get a good look at the make and model of his truck. But I’m sure I can find that info out.

I grip the keys and stuff them in my pocket, sliding the drawer back.

Her closet is much like her room—neat, organized. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. What evidence could I possibly find to prove her innocence? But then I remember learning about warrants, how the police were able to come into our apartment and flip it inside out, looking for crumbs. Any crumb is better than none.

But nothing is standing out. On the bottom, the several pairs of shoes she brought are lined up.

Then I spot them.

I hadn’t seen the sandals since we got to Martha’s Vineyard. Since the night of the party. I remember them clearly because they went with her dress—white, flat, lacing up just above her ankles.

Or at least they used to be white. Now they’re rusted brown, caked with mud and tiny seashells.

Seashells …

I bend down to touch them. They’re the same shells I saw at the beach by the bridge. And it’s not really mud, it’s a stain, like brown water.

What if it wasn’t mud. What if it was something else …

“What are you doing?”

I shoot straight up with a yelp, spinning to face Cassie, who’s standing right behind me.

“I … uh … I just was … I wanted to …”

My tongue struggles to come up with any excuse, but nothing seems to make sense.

Cassie chuckles and closes the door behind her.

“Don’t lie. You don’t know how to.”

She’s right. I don’t. So I start with the truth.

“I wanted to see … why you’ve been so … weird.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s none of your business.”

“Chadwick is dead. People think you had something to do with it. Don’t you want to prove you didn’t?”

“You think I care what those idiots think? I didn’t care last summer and I definitely don’t care now.”

She steps closer, towering over me, leaning inches from my face.

“If I catch you in here again, I’ll make you pay for it. I’ll make you wish you were never born. Now get out my room. NOW!”

I scramble, clipping my shoulder on the door as I race down the stairs, bumping right into London.

“Hey!” She laughs. “What are you doing?”

“I was in Cassie’s room,” I blurt out.

London gives me a once-over. “Uhhh … why?”

Lie.

“I want to help you prove she didn’t do it. So I thought maybe I could find … something.”

She swallows hard. “Oh. And did you? Find anything?”

Lie, my thoughts scream. Lie. Lie. Lie. Don’t hurt her feelings.

“N-no,” I stutter. “But I have another idea.”

Nomans is a restaurant that a lot of the adults party at. At least that’s how London described it. The restaurant isn’t far from the bridge, but not exactly walkable at night.

“What are we doing here?”

London stands by her bike, shielding her eyes from the sun as I walk in a circle around the wide gravel parking lot.

“The police said they found Chadwick’s car here. But no keys.” As I say it, I think about the keys I found in Cassie’s room and rub away a chill.

“So?”

“So. Someone must have taken his car to the bridge and returned it. But why?”

I stand on the edge of the road, near the entrance to the parking lot.

“That way is to the bridge and that way is toward Oak Bluffs. There has to be a camera around here somewhere that caught something.”

“Don’t you think the police thought of that?” London says. “They probably already talked to Nomans about it.”

I point toward the restaurant. “That camera is too far, no way they got what they’re looking for. If they did, they would’ve made an arrest.”

London’s mouth drops. “You think they’re going to arrest Cassie?”

“I don’t know,” I say, walking down the road toward the bridge. There are a few houses off to the side, deep in the woods with long driveways. Across the street, I spot a mailbox painted with all kinds of different colorful birds. I glance up at the trees and stop short.

“They didn’t see anything on the restaurant camera. But I bet you they didn’t check that camera!”

“I don’t see anything.” London says, leaning over my shoulder.

The old man that lives in the house next to Nomans is a bird-watcher. He has a camera set up by a nest that happens to be pointed toward the parking lot.

“Just wait,” I whisper.

When London and I knocked on his door and told the old man what we were looking for, he seemed puzzled but willing to pull up the recording from that night. Judging from the footage, there were tons of cars in the lot. The party didn’t end until one a.m.

I gasp. “There! There’s Chadwick’s truck.”

We watch as he pulls into the empty parking lot around one a.m. Time ticks by. The old man fast-forwards the footage. Cassie jumps out of Chadwick’s truck, slamming the door, and starts walking away. But no sign of Chadwick. Was he still in the car?

I glance at London, who looks green in the face.

“This is good! It means Cassie was telling the truth,” I assure her.

The old man squints. “Hm. You saw that? Over there. There was a second car that pulled in.”

At the edge of the frame, lights sweep past, and stop just short of the camera’s view.

“Do you know what kind of car that was?” I ask.

The old man frowns. “No idea. I couldn’t even tell the color. Might be black but I better give this over to the police.”

London and I thank the man and head back to the parking lot where we left our bikes.

“How’d you know he would have cameras?” London asks me.

“You saw that mailbox. I could tell he was into nature, bird-watching stuff. It really was a wild guess.”

“And you were right,” she says, surprised. “His walls were covered with photos of birds, even the books stacked on the table were about birds. Hope he can take a break from his bird stalking and bring that footage to the police.”

“He’s gonna. Trust me.”

“How’d you know?”

“’Cause I saw the retired police force certificate on the mantel.”

London nods as if impressed, which is like winning the lottery. “You know, maybe the police were wrong. Maybe it really was a freak shark attack.”

True. Police have made mistakes in the past. But what worries me is that other car we couldn’t see. Whoever the person was knew the island pretty well to dodge all the cameras.

“I have another idea,” I say. “But you’re not gonna like it.”

Can I just say, this is a really dumb idea?”

London shoves her bike into the rack in front of the Oak Bluffs library. She fans her face. She’s wearing a mesh beach cover-up, shorts, and jelly flip-flops.

“This is the perfect beach day and you want us to go here?”

“You said you want to help your sister,” I shoot back. “This is how.”

“Ugh. I guess.”

We walk in, relieved by the cool air-conditioning, and head straight for the information desk.

“Hi, ladies.” The woman behind the desk seems confused. “Can I help you?”

“We’re here for the presentation. Are we too late?”

The question almost leaves her speechless. “Really? Well, no. Dr. Brooks is right upstairs.”

Outside the conference room is a sign: MEET DR. DANIEL BROOKS, SHARK BIOLOGIST. I saw a flyer for the event outside the arcade over a week ago. It’s a long shot, but maybe he could help.

Inside a conference room, an older white man with a graying Santa beard and bald head stands by a projector, the first slide of his presentation on the screen. He checks his watch, tapping the glass as we stroll in. His head jerks up in surprise.

“Oh! Come on in! Have a seat! Glad you could make it.”

It’s an extra-warm welcome since we are the only guests here. Not even the librarians could be bothered to be seat fillers.

“This is so embarrassing,” London mutters as we sit in the front row.

“Well. I see it’s two o’clock, so I guess I’ll get started,” he says, fumbling with a clicker.

“It’s two fifteen,” London corrects him.

“Right. Um, so hello! My name is Dr. Daniel Brooks, leading shark—”

“Hey, ummm, no offense, Doctor,” London cuts in, “but we’re not that interested in your PowerPoint presentation. We have some questions.”

“London!” Could she be any more rude?

“What? We’re the only ones here. Let’s cut to the chase.”

Dr. Brooks laughs. “I see your point. We are in the library in the middle of what they call a perfect beach day.”

“Told you,” London brags, bumping my shoulder.

“We’re interested in what you know about shark attacks,” I say.

He sits on the desk with a sigh. “Most people are. Especially on this island.”

“Really? Do sharks attack people here … often?”

Before he can answer, the door swings open and in walks Miles, out of breath and carrying a notebook.

“Am I too late?” he gasps, and stops short. “London? Kaylani? What are you doing here?”

London gives me a look. It does seem suspicious that we’re here. What do we say? We’re investigating your brother’s murder but really trying to prove Cassie didn’t do it? It sounds crazy.

“Um … London is interested in sharks,” I manage to lie. “You know, after everything …”

Miles nods.

Dr. Brooks’s eyes toggle between us. Then he claps his hands.

“Well, no worries, young man,” Dr. Brooks says, motioning to a free chair beside me. “You’re not late at all. In fact, we’re going a bit rogue here. Now, young lady, you were saying? You were wondering if sharks attack people here often.”

I nod, throwing Miles a nervous smile. His lips tighten.

“Well, not often,” Dr. Brooks continues. “That’s a myth, thanks to that lovely little blockbuster movie called Jaws. But the myth is not without its merits.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Dr. Brooks jumps on his computer, skipping several slides (thank GOD London cut him off. We would’ve been here all day), and pulls up a map of Martha’s Vineyard.

“This area is a part of what we call the shark highway,” he explains. “Sharks and other creatures migrate this way and back throughout the year, following warmer water, depending on the season.”

“So … they do attack around the island?” I press.

“It’s not that simple. Sharks follow their food, and their main food is seals. Seals don’t congregate around here in large enough numbers for sharks to be bothered. So, sharks are just passing through, but not without being sighted by folks.”

“My friend here is afraid of the ocean,” London says, giving me a grin.

“What would make a shark attack?” I ask, ignoring her.

“Shark attacks are defined as any instance in which a shark is in its natural habitat and attacks without any human provocation,” Dr. Brooks explains. “Which includes intentionally approaching a shark or swimming in an area where bait is being used to lure fish. Unprovoked bites are the most useful for studying how sharks behave.

“All that to say, don’t worry, girls, the odds of being bitten by a shark are incredibly low. Best way to avoid being bitten is to not swim at dawn or dusk—definitely not at night—and avoid excessive splashing in high shark-traffic areas.”

Definitely not at night. Avoid splashing …

I gulp, thinking of Chadwick. Maybe he did jump. Maybe a shark just happened to be swimming past right then.

Miles must be thinking the same thing as he tightens his hold around his notebook.

“There was a boy who died at the bridge,” London starts slowly, her eyes shifting to Miles. “He jumped in at night and was attacked by a shark. But, like, they’re saying he wasn’t … but he had a bite mark.”

I’m not sure if we should be asking these types of questions around Miles.

“Ah, I am very familiar with the tragedy.”

Miles shifts in his seat, hands gripping the sides with white knuckles.

Dr. Brooks shakes his head as if thinking. “But, guys, I don’t want to scare you.”

“We’re not scared,” I insist.

“And this is really cool,” London adds. “I totally want to be a shark expert when I grow up!”

It’s an obvious lie. She doesn’t even like to get her hair wet. But it seems to do the job of buttering him up. Dr. Brooks leans over and digs into his leather bag, papers scattering until he pulls out a large beige object.

“You see this? This is a shark tooth, specifically from a great white. There are several different types of shark teeth, but most if not all are triangle-shaped.” He draws a triangle in the air with his finger. London leans forward as if riveted, and if she’s acting, then she deserves all the awards.

“When sharks bite down, the impression looks much like a scattering of triangles with one missing side. Think of a greater than or less than symbol.” He places the tooth in London’s hand. She swallows as if disgusted but holds it together. Dr. Brooks rips out another piece of paper and quickly draws a sketch.

“The scattering makes two arcs, like this.”

He draws the symbols over and over again, making them look like a bite mark. Miles studies the picture.

“So, yes, he could have been bitten by a shark at night. He could have been caught up in the current. But that’s not what happened here. I can assure you that that was no shark attack. What they found on that young man wasn’t a bite.”

Miles’s eyes flicker up. He frowns. “How do you know?”

Dr. Brooks sighs and closes his laptop. “They’ve asked for my opinion. Seems like someone unfortunately tried to make a wound look like a bite mark, using some sort of sharp tool.”

Miles pauses for a moment, his lip quivering. Then he sprints out the conference room, the door slamming behind him.

When we left the library, London uttered words I haven’t heard her say this entire time we’ve been on the island. “I’m hungry. Let’s get some lobster rolls.”

We sit outside on park benches in front of Giordano’s, near the Flying Horses Carousel. London ordered two lobsters rolls, fries, and Cokes. We eat, watching the ferry dock at the port, a new crowd of people coming to vacation. That was just us two weeks ago.

“Do you think that guy really knows what he’s talking about?” London asks with a mouth full of food. “He looked, like, a million years old.”

I nod as I lick my fingers. I’ve never had a lobster roll before. Chopped-up lobster stuffed inside a toasted hot dog bun. It’s delicious and buttery.

“When he pulled out his wallet, I saw his ID. He also had a bunch of stats and figures on his computer and seems to have a speaking tour schedule on his calendar. He even has a tan, like one you get from being on boats a lot. He seems official to me.”

She stares at me for a moment. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Like, pay attention to people so hard. I didn’t even see his wallet.”

“It helps that I don’t have a phone to distract me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Ha ha.”

“Oh, so you DO know how to laugh.”

The whirling dizzy music, mixed with giggles and laughter coming from the carousel, is distracting.

“Hey, how about we take a ride?” I suggest.

She turns her face up. “That’s for babies. I wouldn’t be caught dead on that thing.”

I sigh. “Of course.”

“Anyways. What’s next? The shark man said it wasn’t a shark but someone wanted to make it seem like it. My sister’s smart, but she’s not that smart, to pull something like that off.”

“We need to find Jaden,” I say. “Do you know where in the Campground he lives?”

“No. And ew,” London says. “Why do we need to talk to him?”

“’Cause he took Cassie home that night, right? Maybe he saw something.”

London’s mouth opens as if she’s about to reply, but then she frowns at something over my shoulder. “Miles?”

Behind me, Miles is standing frozen, as if staring at a ghost.

“I think … I think someone killed my brother.”

Miles stands there, breathing heavy, his lips trembling. I glance at his notebook, the crinkled pages, and realize he’s been doing the same thing as us: investigating. London throws me a look, softly shaking her head. We can’t tell him about Cassie being a suspect or us being at the party. He may not want to be our friend anymore. He may even think Cassie did it. But we need to know what, if anything, he knows.

Plus, I need to be sure he’s okay.

“Miles, are you—”

“I don’t know, but something isn’t adding up, and my parents, they’ve been acting all weird since we got back from Rhode Island and the cops stopped by our house. They won’t tell me what’s going on. But Dr. Brooks, what he said about sharks, what I read online, it makes sense.”

“Well …” London starts cautiously. “What are you going to do?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. But first … I need ice cream.”

I wasn’t expecting that. “Wait, what?”

Miles squirms a bit. “Well, that’s what me and Chad always did … got ice cream, whenever we couldn’t, like, figure something out. It was our thing.”

I think of Dad and our traditions. Waffles for dinner when we had a bad day or Pizza Night when Mom worked late on Fridays. We had so many “things” that I haven’t done in a really long time.

“So I’m going to Mad Martha’s,” Miles says with a firm nod. “Want to come? It’s hot and I can’t think without a double chocolate chip.”

I glance at London and shrug. “Uh, sure. I’m down.”

London bites her lip. “Yeah. Me too!”

My head almost spins off my neck. “YOU want ice cream?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

The three of us head down Circuit toward the mint building with the purple-and-white sign. MAD MARTHA’S, EST. 1971.

“This is the line … for ice cream?” I ask. You’d think some new sneakers just dropped, the way the line spills out the front door.

“Everyone gets ice cream at Mad Martha’s,” London says.

“It better be good,” I shoot back, shielding the sun with my hand.

“It’s my favorite,” she admits in a low voice. “At least … when I have it.”

“Doesn’t seem like you have it enough,” I say with a grin.

She smiles and it seems genuine.

“They got lobster ice cream,” Miles says, raising both his eyebrows. “You gonna try it?”

“Ew. Naw.” I pause for a beat, curiosity eating at me. “But … what does it taste like?”

“Like lobster,” he laughs.

I gag. “How could ice cream taste like lobster?”

“You’ll see.”

“I ain’t seeing nothing but a strawberry cone with sprinkles!”

Miles snorts and lets out a laugh, which seems to take him by surprise. The look on his face makes me laugh too. Feels like I haven’t laughed in weeks. Maybe months. Hanging with London and Cassie feels so heavy, everything so serious, from the clothes they wear, to what they do. But with Miles, I can relax a little and be what my dad wants me to be … a kid.

As London stands on her tiptoes to check out the flavors, Miles taps my shoulder.

“If it wasn’t a shark,” he whispers. “And if someone really did kill my brother … that means the person could still be here, on the island.” He glances around. “He … or she, could be anyone.”

I gulp, my legs feeling wobbly. It didn’t really hit me until now that there might be a murderer among us. The person could be standing next to us waiting for ice cream, hanging at the arcade, tanning on the beach. Just like in the water, you never know what’s lurking, hunting, ready to attack.

Somehow, I’d feel safer with the sharks.

“So. Are you going to help me find my brother’s killer or what?” Miles asks.

London turns around, locking eyes with me.

“Why me?” I say.

He shyly rubs the back of his neck. “’Cause … you went to the library with me that one time, no questions asked.”

I smile. “Okay.”

“Count me in too,” London says.

Miles beams. “Okay. Where should we start?”

Honestly, I’m running out of ideas. Until I remember something the investigators asked of my dad. He had to hand over his phone and computer for them to search.

“Did your brother have a tracker on his phone?” I ask.

“Yeah. It’s the first thing my mom pulled up when he was missing. The last place it pinged him at was the bridge. But … they never found his phone. Why?”

“Well. Maybe we should look for it again, near the bridge. If the killer is still on the island, maybe Chad knew him! Maybe his phone can help us find out who he is.”

London and I walk into the house, still laughing about the lobster ice cream.

“It tasted like butter ice cream,” I whine. “I don’t know what to say.”

London snickers. “I can’t believe you let him convince you to try it. You’ll never get the taste out your mouth now.”

“Hey, he bet me five dollars!”

“If you throw up lobster ice cream in our room, I’m going to make you sleep outside with the skunks.”

We head up the stairs. “Ohhhh, is that why it always stinks around here?”

“I swear a family of them must live in the backyard.”

We cackle, spilling into the room, and stop short. There’s Cassie, sitting cross-legged on the bed. My bed.

“Cassie.” London balks in surprise.

Cassie’s eyes bounce from me to London and back. She smirks.

“Grandpa said I’m off punishment,” she says. “Three days is enough. It’s summer after all. London, you want to hang out tomorrow?”

London blinks. “Really? You want to hang out with me?”

“Yeah. We’ll do some shopping, then head to the beach.”

A smile takes over London’s face. “Yes!”

“Cool. Oh. I guess you can come too, Kaylani.”

Something feels off about Cassie. Her smile is a little too wide, like she’s hiding … something. I consider saying no. But Dad hasn’t called yet and I don’t want to miss him by not being London’s shadow.

“Okay.” I sigh. “Let’s go shopping.”

Right after breakfast the next morning, we bike into Vineyard Haven, a town not far from the Watsons’. Most of the shops Cassie and London go to are fancy beachwear stores and jewelry boutiques … nothing that I would ever dream of wearing. Each shop more expensive than the last. But London and Cassie seem able to find something in every store we step in, giggling and gossiping the whole time. I’ve never seen London look so happy. This is all she ever wanted, to be seen around town with her sister.

We walk up to another dress shop, close to the bookstore. In the window, I notice a flowy skirt on the mannequin.

“You should try that on,” Cassie says, catching me staring.

“Oh nah, I’m cool,” I say as I follow her and London into the store.

Cassie puts her arm around my shoulder. “Trust me, it won’t hurt for you to try it.”

In the dressing room, I squirm in the fancy fabric, afraid to even touch it. Because the first thing I noticed when the saleswoman found my size was the price tag … two hundred dollars.

“That looks AMAZING on you,” Cassie says, grinning.

“OMG, it really does,” London agrees. “You look so good!”

“Here, try on this sweater with it,” Cassie says. “That’s going to be perfect for the all-white party.”

“Thanks, guys, but … I can’t afford this.”

“It’s okay. I’ll buy it for you.”

London’s eyes grow wide and I’m too taken aback to speak.

“Wh-what? But I don’t have money to pay you back.”

Cassie smiles, waving me off. “Don’t worry about it. You’re like family. And it looks too good on you to let it go.”

London nods eagerly, dancing in place. “Omg! It’s going to look perfect! I can do your makeup and hair too!”

I take another look in the mirror at a reflection that I don’t recognize. I look like them. But … maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe a change is what I need.

“Well. Okay. Thank you!”

After a few more purchases, we stop for lunch at the Black Dog Tavern. Maybe I was wrong about Cassie. She seems pretty cool, down-to-earth … nothing like London.

Cassie pays the waitress and turns to us. “You know what? I have an idea!”

There are dozens of people on the bridge today. As if they haven’t heard what happened to Chadwick or didn’t care. They squeal while they jump into the unknown, sunbathe by the rocks where his body was found. I hold on to the handles of my bike, taking in the crowd. Then I glance down at the bag swinging on the handle, holding my new clothes. Am I becoming one of them?

London hesitantly parks her bike, following Cassie. “Um, what are we doing here?”

Why would Cassie want to come here? To the place they found her ex-boyfriend. After everything that’s happened?

Cassie smiles. “London, it’s time!”

London glances at the bridge railing, her mouth falling open. “You mean … you want me to jump?”

“Yes. All three of us are going to make the jump.” Cassie shoots me a wicked grin and my stomach drops.

London fidgets with her ponytail. “But … my hair. And I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

Cassie puts an arm over her sister’s shoulder, talking all sweet. “I’ll do your hair when we get back home. And we’ll dry off on the ride back. It’s hot enough.”

London bites her lip. She’s been asking Cassie to help her with her hair all summer and Cassie’s always turned her down. She knows this is her chance to prove herself.

“Okay. I’ll do it,” London says, her voice shaky.

Cassie nods approvingly, pushing her toward the rail. She turns to me. “Let’s go, Kaylani.”

“I can’t … swim like that,” I say. “It’s too deep!”

“That’s okay. You jump, and I’ll bring you to shore.”

I want to believe her. I also don’t want to get in that water.

I shake my head. I have nothing to prove. They can swim without me.

“Come on, Kaylani,” London urges. “Cassie’s a good swimmer.”

So was Chadwick, I want to shoot back, but I realize I can’t breathe. My legs feel like jelly.

Cassie steps forward, gripping my wrist. I try to yank away but she pulls me closer.

“Come on, Kaylani. Let’s jump,” she hisses with a nasty grin and I know deep down she won’t save me. That she’ll let me drown …

Did she promise Chadwick she’d save him too?

Cassie yanks me closer to the railing, where London is already climbing, slowly.

“No,” I whimper, the fear ripping through me. I’m seconds from bursting into tears.

“What’s the matter, Kaylani, scared of a little water?” Suddenly, Cassie straightens. “Oh. Hey, Miles.”

Beside us, Miles is standing, fully dressed, holding his bike handles. His eyes lock on Cassie’s grip on my arm. She follows his gaze and releases her hold.

“Hey, Cassie?” Miles says.

“What are you doing here?” London asks.

“I’m looking for something,” he says, still staring at Cassie. “Kaylani, I didn’t know you knew how to swim.”

“Not really,” I mumble, still trembling, and wrap my arms around my stomach, trying to hold in the tears.

“Well, you wanna help me look for … something … while Cassie and London jump?”

I nod quickly and hurry toward him, not waiting for the sisters to respond.

“Thanks for saving me back there,” I say, once we are in the clear, my heart still racing.

“What was that all about?” he asks, parking his bike.

I look back at the railing. London and Cassie stand at the top, grinning and holding hands. Cassie counts off and they jump together, plunging into the water. The crowd cheers as they pop up, squealing and laughing. All this time I thought Cassie was nice, but deep down, she’s nasty. I’ve dealt with girls like her before. Smile in your face but stab you in the back when you’re not looking. I can’t believe I fell for it. Like a shark creeping in the water, and I didn’t see her coming. I thought I was safe.

Is anything on this island safe?

“Nothing,” I mumble, clearing my throat. “I didn’t know you were coming out here today. You find Chadwick’s phone yet?”

“No, not yet,” he says. “But I think I know who did it!”

I stop short. “Who?”

“This guy Jaden.”

“Jaden? Really?”

“Wait, you know him?”

I shrug. “He helps Mrs. Watson with her garden. But why him?”

“The night Chadwick … you know, he went to a party on the beach and I heard he got into a fight with Jaden over Cassie. Jaden just ran up on the beach and hit him.”

Miles still doesn’t know that London and I were at that party. He doesn’t know that Chadwick was the one who started the fight. I want to tell him. I hate keeping this from him. But London will be furious if I tell Miles. And I can’t risk losing my connection to Dad.

“A fight over Cassie?” I ask. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. We need to find Jaden. When’s the last time you’ve seen him?”

I realize I haven’t seen Jaden since last week. Maybe it’s time I tell Miles about what we saw that night. This secret feels too heavy to carry. I tiptoe across the tall grass, spotting Cassie and London splashing around.

Another two sharks in the water, I think.

“I don’t know, Miles, but honestly … what are you going to do when you find Jaden?”

The question takes Miles by surprise. He hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t considered how dangerous it could be. His hands ball into fists, his face tight. “I don’t know. I’ll …

I’ll … ugh.”

He slumps forward and kneels on the ground, fists at his temples, rocking back and forth. I drop beside him.

“Miles! Are you okay?”

He looks up, tears streaming down his face. “I miss him. He was the only one that really understood me. That I could talk to. He was real popular at school and even here. But he liked hanging out with me. That meant something, you know?”

I know exactly what he means. The same feeling I have with Dad.

“I just keep thinking, if it was me that was gone, he wouldn’t stop looking for the truth,” Miles goes on. “He was like that. When something bothered him, he never stopped, even when people warned him to.”

Behind us, screams and splashes fill the air, the sounds of joy, so opposite from the way we’re feeling. I sigh, touching his shoulder.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a lawyer.”

He frowns. “Really?”

I hadn’t told anyone until this moment. It feels good to say that aloud. “Yeah. I’ve already been studying and stuff. I’m going to be the youngest lawyer ever!”

Miles sniffles. “Wow. That’s … really cool.”

“But you know what I’ve already learned? In order to put away the bad guys, you need a strong case. With evidence. That’s why … we need to find that phone before we even think about looking for Jaden.”

Miles stares at me, understanding washing over him. He nods. “Okay. Let’s find that phone.”

We search the tall grass for over two hours, finding nothing, while London and Cassie take several more jumps.

London talks about their jumps nonstop all the way home, Cassie wearing that same evil smirk only I can see. Once home, they retreat to Cassie’s room to do their hair and gush over their clothes.

The next day, they go out again while I meet Miles for another day of searching. I’m not eager to leave London and her phone … but I don’t feel safe around Cassie.

Miles and I pick through the sand and grass for an hour, but we don’t find anything.

After dinner, I go up to my room, exhausted but eager to study. I open my bag, and immediately know something is wrong. I dump the contents on my bed. My notes are out of order, papers scribbled on, some even missing. Has someone been going through my things?

London walks through the bathroom from Cassie’s room, humming.

“Hey, did you go through my bag?” I ask her.

She frowns. “What? Why would I do that? What in the world do you have in there that I would want?”

She’s right. London doesn’t care enough. But who would—

“London, Kaylani,” Mrs. Watson calls from downstairs. “Come here for a moment.”

London and I share a quick look. What is it this time?

Mr. and Mrs. Watson are sitting in the living room, their faces sullen. Cassie sits on the opposite sofa, a hand propping up her cheek.

“What’s wrong?” I blurt out.

“Did someone else die?” London asks.

“No,” Mr. Watson says, his voice stern. “But we need to talk to you. All of you. Sit.”

My stomach tightens. I plop down on the sofa next to Cassie. London sits on the opposite side of her.

Mr. Watson nods at his wife, who is holding a folder in her hand.

“Girls, we have something very serious we want to go over with you.”

She opens the folder to show that it contains sheets of paper with lots of numbers.

“We ran the ledger numbers against the money deposited from the charity event. There’s over a thousand dollars missing.”

“Oh no,” I say.

“Do you ladies know anything about this?” Mr. Watson asks.

We collectively shake our heads.

“Girls, this is serious,” he says. “You were the only ones manning the ticket table. You handled the cashbox. Now that money is missing.”

Mrs. Watson turns to me. “There were some new purchases on your side of your room.”

“You looked through our things?” London says, confused.

“No, no. Ms. Marguerite was changing your sheets and I happened to go in and see. So, Kaylani, care to explain?”

Why are they only talking to me? I wasn’t the only one manning the ticket table. London was there too. And Cassie. I never even touched the cashbox.

I glance at Cassie, wondering why she isn’t chiming in to defend me. But then I think of all the money Cassie spent while shopping. The expensive outfits, the jewelry she bought. I didn’t see how she paid for it. I assumed she used her parents’ credit card or something. Could she have used cash? And did that cash come from the box?

“Kaylani,” Mrs. Watson says again.

“I didn’t take it,” I say, my voice cold. “I didn’t take the money.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Watson asks.

“Now is not the time to lie, young lady,” Mr. Watson warns.

I’m no dummy. I know they’re looking at me because I’m the outsider. The poor little girl from Brooklyn. Of course I’m the easy target to lay blame on.

Suddenly, London gasps and jumps to her feet to face me.

“Omg, you did take it, didn’t you?”

I frown. “What? No, I didn’t. You were sitting right next to me all night.”

“You’re lying!”

“Girl, I don’t lie,” I shoot back. “That’s y’all.”

“Of course you did. Your dad stole money, and you’re just like him!”

My tongue falls dead in my mouth.

London spins around to her grandparents. “See! I told you I didn’t want to hang out with her. But you made me! Now I’m going to be associated with her! My rep is ruined!”

The Watsons sit back, their angry expressions never changing. No way their fake-perfect grandkids would ever steal from them. Like those sisters haven’t lied about everything else this summer.

London points at me as she carries on. “You made me hang out with a thief! I hope you’re happy. Bad enough her daddy’s in jail, now she’ll probably go too!”

She whips around to me.

“And see, this is why I gave you a fake number. ’Cause I didn’t want your jailbird of a daddy calling my phone. EVER!”

I stand up, her words pounding me in the stomach. “You … what?”

“You didn’t think I would give you my real number, did you? You must be out of your mind. HA! I would never.”

I’m hearing things. Because there’s no way she just said that.

Cassie gives me a wary glance, measuring me for my reaction.

I don’t get angry often. Annoyed, yeah. Frustrated, yeah. But angry … that’s a level of the game I rarely make it to.

The Watsons give each other a nervous look. Even to them, this is beyond cruel.

My fists ball up and my neck grows hot. All this time … my dad has been trying to reach me, probably calling someone else’s phone, wasting precious minutes and money … Does she have any idea what she’s done?

I want to scream, I want to jump on her chest, pull her hair out, scratch her face bloody, thump her head into the floor of their fancy house. But then I would be proving them right about me, about my family, and I won’t give them the satisfaction.

Cassie sits in silence with a knowing smirk. No one notices but me.

I’ve got two options: Blow up Cassie’s spot, which the Watsons will never believe … or prove I didn’t steal the money.

I take a deep breath. “There is a security camera in the art gallery, right above the exit sign near the front door. It had a clear view of the table. You want me to ask for the footage tomorrow?”

Confusion runs across the Watsons’ faces. Cassie’s face falls. London glances around the room.

“Security cameras?” she says.

“Yeah. I peeped them when we were setting up. Just like I notice everything else.” I say that last part looking directly at London.

London blinks and I know that she knows I’m right.

“Come on, Grandma,” Cassie starts with a nervous chuckle. “There’s no way Kaylani stole that money. I was right there. When we were done for the night, we handed the box over to the gallery owner. It was in the back all by itself. Anyone could’ve taken the money.”

London opens her mouth but then shuts it tight, her arms crossed.

“Check it if you don’t believe me,” I say. “I don’t care! I’m going back to Brooklyn!”

I run out the room, Mrs. Watson calling my name. I swing the front door open, rush around to the garage, grab a bike, and pedal hard into the night, my face soaking wet with tears.

Dad was arrested on a Thursday, right after school. When I got home, Dad was already gone and cops were rummaging through our apartment, tearing up anything they could find. Mom stood in the doorway, crying on the phone, a copy of the warrant in her hands. She was calling Grandma to come get me. She didn’t want me to see.

Dad was accused of stealing money from his firm, transferring small amounts to an overseas account over several months.

“Why would I steal that type of money and have my wife and daughter still living in a railroad apartment?” Dad asked during the trial.

It made no sense.

His lawyers argued that anyone in the company could have accessed his username and password. The company’s logins were compromised just that past year. But Dad had no proof that it wasn’t him. Once the trial started, it became clear he wouldn’t win and that they could come after Mom’s assets to retrieve the lost money. We would’ve had to move back in with Grandma. Dad took a plea deal.

But it didn’t stop the shame.

I let the night air cool my burning skin as I pedal hard to Circuit Ave. I want to be alone but around people, still too afraid of the island’s darkness. I park my bike by the frozen yogurt spot and find an empty bench to sit, catching my breath.

I can’t believe London lied to me. And I was willing to help her sister.

I can’t believe the Watsons thought that I would steal from a charity. What about me makes them hate me?

London didn’t just hurt me with her lie, she also hurt Dad, who’s already been through so much. I can never forgive her.

“Kaylani. What are you doing here? You’re out after curfew.”

I glance up at Miles, and his smile drops.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I sniff.

“Homesick? Or is it the Watsons being … the Watsons?”

I wipe my eyes. “I guess both. I want to go home.”

Miles nods and sits next to me on the bench.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask him. “You don’t have a curfew?”

“Yeah, but no one really notices. Now that Chadwick is gone.” He sighs. “I have to get out the house. It’s real … depressing. Sometimes I’m out all day and no one looks for me.”

In an instant, guilt washes over me. Here he is comforting me, when he’s the one who lost his brother.

“We used to have so much fun here,” he says. “It was always so cool to just be able to go where we want, do what we want. Back home, I usually stay in my room and play my Switch.”

I laugh. “Honestly, me too.”

“This place always felt so safe to us … before. It still does, but it’s different.”

I sniff again. “What did you mean earlier? When you said ‘The Watsons being the Watsons’?”

Miles shrugs. “Oh, nothing. Just, everyone knows how uptight they are. They ran around telling everyone Chadwick was a bad influence on Cassie, like he was some kind of after-school special. Rumors like that, it could’ve hurt his chances with colleges. That’s why he broke up with her.”

“Really? London said he broke up with her because of some other girl.”

“That’s a lie. Come on, my brother wasn’t even like that.”

What little I know about Chadwick, I can believe that to be true.

“But Mr. and Mrs. Watson are so … nice. Well, until today.”

Miles rolls his eyes. “They want you to think they’re nice.”

Just like Cassie.

We sit quiet for a moment. Then he snaps his fingers.

“Yo, have you been on the merry-go-round yet?”

“Nah. London says that’s kid stuff.”

“No way. You have to ride it, at least once before you go back home. Come on!”

Miles drags me down the road to the Flying Horses. I read the sign that says it’s the oldest carousel in the country. He buys us tickets and we stand in line behind a few kids, parents, and couples until it’s our turn to ride.

I pick a beige horse with white hair, its glass eyes kinda demonic, nostrils red, mouth baring big yellowing teeth. I hold tight to the pole in front of my seat.

“This thing is kinda rickety,” I say.

Miles sits on a brown horse right in front of me. He turns to point across the room.

“You see that metal arm thing sticking out over there? With that silver ring at the top?”

“Yeah.”

“Every time your horse passes that, reach out and grab a ring. You collect them. Whoever gets the brass ring gets to ride again for free.”

A dizzying organ tune fills my ears as the carousel starts to move, slowly at first, spinning in a circle, until it begins to speed up. I watch Miles and other riders reach out toward the robot arm, grabbing a silver ring each time they pass. But it feels like we’re going too fast for me to dare to try it.

“Go for it, Kaylani!”

“No! It’s gonna rip my arm off!”

Miles laughs. “It won’t! Just try it.”

As the arm comes around again, I reach out and snatch a metal ring off. Not bad. Then, a brass ring pops out. Miles grabs it. Everyone on the ride cheers.

The ride slows, creeping to a halt, and people jump off. I count that I collected five silver rings, dumping them into the collection pot to be recycled for the next round.

“That was crazy!” I say. “The way everyone was reaching for those rings. I swore someone was going to lose a finger.”

Miles slips the brass ring into my palm.

“You take it. You deserve another ride!”

“You know those horses have real horsehair on them?” Miles says.

“Omg! Are you for real? I was touching some dead horse’s hair. Ew gross.”

“Ha! You sound like London now. ‘Ew gross!’”

“Yeah, well, she definitely wouldn’t be here eating donuts.”

Miles has taken me to a place called Back Door Donuts, where they make late-night donuts that everyone seems to line up for. I’m sort of amazed by Miles. He lost his brother, his best friend, yet still seems to go on trying to enjoy life, despite being sad. I’m not sure what I would do if I was him.

Then again, I haven’t really been living since Dad went away.

While in line, I feel comfortable enough to tell Miles about London and the fake phone number.

“Man, that’s messed up. All you wanted to do was talk to your dad. He’s probably missing you like crazy.”

I hold in tears and smile. “Yeah. I hope so.”

“Well, here,” Miles says, grabbing a scrap of a receipt and one of the order pencils. “You can give him my number and he can call me whenever he wants.”

“Uhh … you’re okay with a … prisoner calling you?”

He gives me a look, as if I asked a stupid question. “Bro, he’s your dad! Not a prisoner.”

For the first time, someone’s acknowledged that Dad was more than what people say he did. My heart swells, tears forming as Miles writes down his phone number.

But as his head is turned, I see Cassie and Jaden walking into an alley. I haven’t seen Jaden since the charity event. They don’t see me, but I see them and it looks like they’re arguing. Again.

“Here you go,” Miles says, his back to the alley, not seeing Cassie and Jaden arguing behind him. I don’t know what Miles will do if he sees them. Or what Jaden may do.

I thank Miles and take the paper. Cassie and Jaden are none of my business. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m going home.

After Miles and I finish our donuts, I pedal back to the Watsons’ house, the dark road kind of comforting now. I’m probably way past curfew.

Good.

I want to give them every reason to send me home. I tried to be nice, tried to be good and polite and tell the truth, and it still got me here. I’m done playing this wack game with these bougie people. I’m ready to go home, where I belong.

As I turn into the driveway, I see the lights still on and Mrs. Watson swinging on the porch. She spots me and stands at the top of the steps.

“Kaylani. Are you all right, dear?”

I hop off the bike, the gears clicking as I walk it to the edge of the steps. I don’t say nothing. Silent treatment. That’s what I’ll give them until they get sick of me and send me home. Every move I make from this point on is to get me back to Brooklyn.

Mrs. Watson takes a deep breath, her face all sad.

“Kaylani, I owe you an apology.”

I try to hold in my surprise, but I honestly wasn’t expecting this. She seemed so sure I was the one who did it. What made her change up now?

“You got the footage already?” I ask, wondering what she saw. Who could have taken that money? And why?

She shakes her head, slowly coming down the steps. “No. I don’t need to see it. That’s not what is important. It’s just money. It’s not worth hurting a young girl’s feelings over. I am so very sorry for how we treated you. We assumed you were guilty without a single drop of evidence. That wasn’t right.”

She stops in front of me.

“Your father was smart. That’s why I recommended him to the firm. I worked there for over thirty years. I still know the place inside and out. The money that flowed through there … I’m sure it was very tempting.”

I push back my shoulders, lift my chin, and make my voice hard.

“My dad didn’t steal that money.”

She folds her hands. “I’m afraid there’s a lot of evidence that proved otherwise, dear. I understand wanting to believe your father without a shadow of a doubt. You love him. But sometimes, we have to see through love for the truth.”

I shake my head. “Dad said y’all were like family. But he don’t know you at all.”

Mrs. Watson’s face immediately falls and I don’t wait for her to say another word. I stomp inside the house and head straight for my room.

For a change, I wake up before London. I want to pack my bags and have them ready to go. I don’t know how I’m getting back to Brooklyn. I don’t care, as long as I can get off this island and away from these people.

Downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Watson are at the breakfast table with Cassie, drinking coffee. Mrs. Watson spots me and smiles.

“Good morning, Kaylani,” she says, taking a sip. “You’re up early.”

“Ms. Marguerite is making her famous pancakes,” Mr. Watson adds. “We’ll all be nice and stuffed before noon.”

Look at them, acting like last night never happened. The only person keeping the same energy is Cassie. She doesn’t even bother to look up from her fruit salad.

“Good morning, Kaylani,” Ms. Marguerite says. “Pancakes?”

“No, thanks,” I say, though they smell real good. “What time is the ferry? I have all my stuff packed.”

Mrs. Watson puts down her coffee, her face full of worry.

“Hey now, who said anything about leaving?” Mr. Watson says with a chuckle.

Fast feet speed down the stairs. London comes running into the dining room, clothes lopsided as if she just threw them on.

“What’d I miss?” she asks, then quickly avoids my glare.

“I want to go home,” I say.

“Dear, let’s not make hasty decisions,” Mrs. Watson says. “We … all weren’t our best last night. Won’t you consider staying? At least, through the weekend? Then we can revisit it.”

“Besides, you only have another two weeks here,” Mr. Watson says. “What’s the worst that could happen? You get a sunburn?” He laughs at his own joke.

Just then, the doorbell dings.

“I’ll get it, Marguerite,” Mrs. Watson says, leaving her napkin on the table as she stands up and crosses the room.

I slump down in a chair. They’re not sending me home. They’ll keep me here as punishment somehow. I need to call Mom. Make up some excuse for her to come get me.

I hear the front door open and Mrs. Watson exclaim, “Why … good morning, Miles! Deion, it’s good to see you too.”

“Hi, Mrs. Watson,” I hear Miles say in a small voice.

“Is Kaylani home?” Deion asks.

My head snaps up and I rush to the door. London follows; she can’t help herself.

I walk out on the porch, London on my heels. I don’t remember them mentioning her name.

Deion and Miles are wearing matching blue T-shirts.

“Hey, guys! What’s up?” I ask.

“Hey, Lani!” Deion says. “We got one extra spot on our team for today’s scavenger hunt. Want in?”

“A scavenger hunt?”

“Yeah! It takes place all over Oak Bluffs,” Deion explains.

“Please! We need to win this year,” Miles says. “I’m tired of losing to the Patterson twins and their annoying little sisters.”

“I think we all could use a win,” Deion says, his eyes flicking to Miles. “But we gotta hurry! We have to check in by ten a.m. at the park. That’s where all the teams are meeting.”

A scavenger hunt sounds cool and it’s kind of nice they thought of inviting me to be a part of their team. But my heart sinks as I think of my bags packed upstairs.

“Thanks but I … uh … think I’m going home today.”

The boys share a stunned look.

“What? Home? Already?” Deion asks.

“Oh, Kaylani is mistaken,” Mrs. Watson says, giving my shoulder a light squeeze. “She’s not going anywhere. She belongs here. With us.”

I glance up at her, uneasy but almost comforted that she doesn’t hate me.

“Can London join your team too?” Mrs. Watson asks.

The boys squirm, rubbing the back of their necks. They can’t make up a lie fast enough.

“Well, uh … you see … teams can’t be bigger,” Deion stammers. “And we only have one extra blue shirt.”

London huffs. “I don’t care. I don’t want to do some stupid scavenger hunt anyways.”

The boys let out a relieved breath and I have to hold a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.

“Besides, Cassie and I are going to the beach for some REAL fun!” London adds.

“Well, don’t forget to be on the lookout for those sharks,” Deion says, and Miles punches his arm.

“Bro!”

“Oh! Too soon?”

London narrows her eyes, mumbling a “Whatever.”

I give Mrs. Watson one last look and she nods with approval. I quickly hop off the porch.

“Let’s go!” I say, heading for my bike. The boys let out a whoop as they jump on their own bikes.

From the corner of my eye, I see London watching us take off.

Scavenger Hunt Clue #7: Go to the place where her story about a wedding is kept in front of her grave.

“Grave?” Deion repeats, holding the folded paper in his hand. “They want us to go to a graveyard? All right, I’m done. I don’t want to win that bad.”

We’re standing in front of Linda Jean’s Restaurant after the last clue had us digging through a stack of menus.

“Why is the scavenger hunt so hard this year?” Miles says. “How do they expect us to get this clue? We’re kids, not rocket scientists!”

“We’re running out of time,” Deion says, checking his phone. “And we still have three more clues.”

I look over their shoulders, reading the new clue again.

“Wait … kept in front of her grave …” I snap my fingers. “Dorothy West! She’s an author!”

Miles gasps, his eyes bulging. “And there’s a cemetery behind the library. Let’s go!”

We jump on our bikes and take off. Once we reach the library, I’m drenched in sweat as the boys rush in, right to the information desk.

“Ma’am, where can we find books by Dorothy West?”

The gray-haired lady in glasses laughs, as if she’s expecting us. “Local fiction section. Right around there, friends.”

The boys rush over, passing the computers. The same ones Miles and I looked up stuff on. It makes me stop in my tracks.

“Be right back,” I say, returning to the desk.

“What? Where you going?” Deion asks in a low voice as Miles scans the shelves.

But I’m already in front of the librarian.

“Hi. Can you help me find some information on someone that used to live on the island? Her name was Alice McBride?”

She frowns. “From the McBride House?”

“Yes! You heard of her?” I ask.

“Well, yes. An intern from the historical society was doing a bunch of research on Alice McBride last summer and asked for my help. The craziest thing, we couldn’t find much on the internet about her. It’s like someone went and erased all traces of her. Pretty hard to do.”

I gulp. “Really?”

“Yup. Nothing on the surface about her, but when I dove a little deeper, I found out she was a part of the NAACP, the Links, the Cottagers … just about every elite African American organization on the island you could think of. I can’t imagine anyone not knowing her back then. I’ll have to look through the newspaper archives from the 1950s to see if her name is mentioned. But those archives are stored at the Edgartown library branch. May take me a few weeks.”

I nod. By the time she finds it, I’ll already be back in Brooklyn. “Thanks anyways.”

I’m still confused as I go to rejoin Deion and Miles. They’ve found the next clue hiding in a book, just like I knew we would.

Deion holds our trophy in the air as we pedal down the road. “Winners! Get with a winning team!”

I laugh as Miles lets out a whoop. Not only did our team win, we won in record time.

“I can’t believe one of the clues was at the tennis court,” Deion says. “And Kaylani knew where!”

I laugh. “If we didn’t go on that heritage tour, I wouldn’t have a clue about how important tennis clubs were here.”

“Ha! Black history for the win!”

“And for the record,” Miles says, shooting Deion a look. “Tennis balls are yellow. Not green. Can’t believe you screwed up that clue.”

“Nah, bro, they are totally green,” Deion shoots back. “Lani?”

“I … uh, kinda see both. But the clue did say ‘Go where they serve the sun.’”

Deion shakes his head, laughing. “Someone on that staff is color-blind.”

“Hey, where are we going?” I ask, realizing we’re biking farther away from Oak Bluffs.

“My house to celebrate,” Miles says.

Deion’s bike swerves. “Uh, bro. You think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, it’s cool!”

Deion gives me a nervous smile and I wonder if I should be as worried as he seems to be. But before I can make up some excuse, we turn down a dead-end road and ride up to a red mailbox. The Coopers’ house looks similar to other houses on the island, with the gray wooden shingles and gravel driveway. Inside is much more up-to-date. Not stuck in the past like the Watsons’. But there’s also a sense of sadness hanging in the air. Now I know why Deion was nervous.

“Hello!” Miles calls out. But no one answers. He turns to us, slightly embarrassed. “Told you. It’s fine. You wanna see my room? My grandma bought me a PlayStation to keep here. It was supposed to be for me … and my brother.”

I realize that Miles has been mostly alone the last couple weeks. No one has been looking for him. Not like they were looking for his brother. He must be so lonely, grieving on his own. We follow him down the hall and he stops short.

“This was Chadwick’s room,” he says, and before I can stop him, he swings the door open.

Deion lets out a nervous chuckle. “I’ll … wait here.”

I gulp before entering. There’s not much furniture or decoration. This was just his summer stay, not like what his room must look like back home. But Chadwick’s desk has a bunch of papers scattered on it. Most of it looks like articles, pictures, and copies of ledgers.

“He really liked that job at the historical society,” Miles explains, picking up an old flyer. “I think his dream was to work for them full-time, maybe after college. Last summer he was helping research the Watson house so they could add it to the tour, but Mrs. Watson wasn’t a fan. Kept saying she didn’t want strangers around.”

I slip a stack of black-and-white photos from under a folder and study the top one, recognizing it immediately—the Watson house. But from a long time ago. The hedges aren’t as big and the porch must have been extended over the years.

“Your brother told me to look up who originally owned this house. I couldn’t find anything online. They only mentioned her name on that heritage tour.”

The next photo is of a striking Black woman, standing in front of East Chop Lighthouse, her hair flowing in the wind, wearing the brightest smile. I flip the photo over and read the name in script—Alice McBride.

“Wow,” I say aloud. “She was beautiful.”

Miles scans the desk. “All this stuff … is about her.”

I skip to another photo, of her at the beach, in a swimsuit and hat. “She was a swimmer?”

“Yeah. Looks like she loved the water.”

“That’s weird. They said she drowned.”

“Not weird,” Miles sighs. “They said that about Chad too.”

The next photo almost takes my breath away. There’s Alice, in the kitchen of the Watson home. But standing next to her in an apron looks like a younger …

“What are you doing in here?”

We yelp at the voice behind us and spin around.

Mrs. Cooper looks just like Chadwick. Her hair is wild, her pajamas seem like they haven’t been washed in days. This is what grief looks like.

“Mom,” Miles gasps. “Wh-what are you doing out of bed?”

Mrs. Cooper stares right at me. “Who is this?”

I swallow. “I’m Kaylani. I’m, uh, so sorry, Mrs. Cooper. Chadwick was really nice.”

She straightens, eyeing me down.

“Oh, I heard about you. You’re the little girl who stole money from the charity event.”

The boys freeze, staring at me.

“No … no … I didn’t,” I say, mostly to them.

Deion steps closer to me. “Uh, maybe we should—”

“Mmmhmm,” Mrs. Cooper cuts him off, her arms crossed. “I see the apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

“Mom,” Miles says, as if scolding her. “What are you doing?”

“You need to go,” she snaps, pointing to the door. “I already lost a son, I can’t deal with you being in here, stealing God knows what. You and those Watson girls are nothing but trouble to me.”

I stand speechless, tears boiling up. But somehow I get my feet to move and run out the door and keep running.

Lani! Wait!”

I don’t stop. I pass my bike and keep running down the road, tears streaming.

“Kaylani, hold up!” Miles shouts behind me. The boys are following me. What are they doing?

“Kaylani, if you don’t stop, I’m going to have an asthma attack!” Deion yells.

I slow down and turn to them.

Deion smiles. “I knew that would get you to stop.”

“Why are you running away?” Miles asks.

“’Cause … people know about my dad and now … I swear. I didn’t steal that money.”

“Pff. We know THAT!” Deion says with a laugh.

“You do?”

“Yeah!” the boys say in unison.

“You don’t seem like the type to steal anything,” Miles says.

“Thanks,” I say with a sniff.

“My mom … she’s just going through stuff right now,” Miles said. “Not all the grown-ups on the island are like the Watsons.”

I take a deep breath. Maybe he’s right; she did just lose a son. She must be in so much pain.

“Yeah,” Deion added. “My parents are chill. We’re having a BBQ tonight. You should come.”

“Well … I have to ask permission,” I say. “The Watsons got a strict rule about dinner.”

“No prob. I’ll call my mom. She’ll talk to Mrs. Watson. Miles, let me borrow your phone. Mine’s dead.”

Miles digs out his cell and passes it. Deion walks away to make his call.

“Yo, Lani, are you okay?”

I try to quickly dry my face. “Yeah. You didn’t have to come after me.”

“I’m sorry,” Miles whispers, looking real embarrassed. “My mom hasn’t been the same since … since … Look, you’re the only person I’ve been able to talk to about Chad. Everyone acts all weird, especially when I bring up the shark stuff. You want to help the way no one else does.”

Miles’s eyes water up. He digs a hole in the ground with the tip of his sneaker. I feel bad for him. Losing his brother, his best friend, so horribly, and then your parents not really being there for you.

Dad is my best friend, and even though he’s alive, it still feels like I’ve lost him. That he may never come home again. That I may not be able to save him. How can I? I haven’t even been studying, so caught up in all the drama here.

I glance back at Deion, sounding very serious on his call. Maybe his mom doesn’t want me at her house either.

“Anyway, I know you didn’t steal that money,” Miles says. “My mom knows it too, probably.”

I nod. “How do you know?”

“When it comes to the Watsons, that isn’t the first time money has gone missing. Chadwick said they owe everyone who works for them money.”

“Yo, Lani!” Deion says, running back to me. “I got a surprise for you!”

“What’s up?”

“Here.” He passes me Miles’s cell phone. “Call for you.”

My heart swells. I scramble to grab the phone and hold it tight to my ear as I walk into the middle of the road.

“Dad?” I say with a shaky voice.

“Lani! Aw, man, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve missed you. How’s it going?”

I can’t help it. It’s been weeks since I heard his voice. I immediately burst into tears.

“Lani? Oh, don’t cry, baby girl. I’m sorry! It’s my fault. Been having trouble getting through to you but I didn’t sweat it. I thought you were just having a good time. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

“No, no, it’s not that. Everything’s been so awful. I want to go home.”

“Lani, this doesn’t sound like you. What’s going on?”

I ramble quick, explaining everything. Dad listens in silence. If I didn’t hear other men in the background, I would think I lost the call.

“Lani, I’m gonna talk to Grandma tomorrow,” Dad says. “I don’t want you staying anywhere you’re not welcome. I don’t care how many favors the Watsons have done for us in the past. You’re more important to me than all that.”

“Dad, I’m sorry,” I say, trying to hold back fresh tears. “I really tried. They just don’t like me.”

“Lani, what do I always tell you?”

I sniff. “Tough times don’t last, tough people do?”

“Right. What else?”

“No switching up. Keep it real and keep it honest.”

“That’s right. And you did just that. If they don’t see how good you are, then they don’t deserve you. Always go where you’re wanted, baby girl. Never switch up for nobody.”

Deion was right. His parents ARE fun. They grill us some burgers and set up an outdoor screen for movie night. When the sun set, Deion wanted to watch Jaws and we all threw popcorn at his head, crying laughing. Talk about timing. So we pick Finding Nemo instead.

It felt so good, just sitting around, talking about sneakers, video games, and cartoons. Just being normal. Feels like I haven’t done that in months.

At the end of the night, Deion’s dad loads my bike into his trunk and gives me a ride back to the Watsons.

Mrs. Watson is outside to greet me when we arrive. The adults stand in the driveway talking while I make my way up to my room.

London is in bed already, phone in hand, wearing pink under-eye patches. I don’t say anything. I pretend she’s invisible.

“So. Did you have fun today?”

“Yes. I did. You should try it sometime. Where’s Cassie?”

“I don’t know,” she says as if I offended her. “I’m not her babysitter.”

“I’m guessing she went out with friends and you couldn’t go.”

Steam blows out her nose.

“What did you and Miles and Deion do?” London asks as if she doesn’t care, when she knows she does.

“You’ve never done the scavenger hunt? It was so cool. We were all over Oak Bluffs.”

“Well … no one has ever asked me to be on their team,” she admits in a small voice.

I stop unpacking to look at her. I kind of feel sorry for London. So busy following behind her sister, trying to be older, she don’t know how to let loose.

But I can’t forgive her for what she’s done. At least not yet.

I reach into my bag to grab the notes I was able to salvage. Mixed in with them is the piece of scrap paper I wrote London’s number on. Reading it now, the number even looks fake.

On the back of the paper is a printout of an invoice in Mr. Watson’s name. Past due. I know all about past due bills now. Since Dad’s been away, Mom has been struggling to keep up with some of the bills. I’ve seen them on the kitchen table and they look just like this one.

That’s weird. A rich family like the Watsons shouldn’t have trouble paying their bills. I stuff the paper back into my book bag. I don’t want the Watsons knowing I took this out of their office. I’m already a thief in their eyes.

But in the morning, I have some questions that only one person in this house can answer.

The next morning after breakfast, I collect my plate and stroll into the kitchen, grabbing a fresh glass of orange juice. At the sink, Ms. Marguerite smiles. I didn’t notice it before, but she’s much older than I thought. Maybe even older than Grandma.

“Hello, Ms. Kaylani. I’ll be doing your laundry later this afternoon. Do you need anything else?”

I smile with a small nod. “Thanks, Ms. Marguerite. I actually had a question. You’ve been on the island for a long time, right?”

Her face lights up. “Yes, almost all my life.”

“Here, at this house?”

“Yup. Don’t have any family or friends like that. Haven’t been to the mainland in years. This house is all I know.”

I move closer to her.

“Do you remember the last owner of this house?”

She keeps her back to me. “No. I cannot recall.”

“Her name was Alice McBride.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“And you used to work for her.”

Her whole body jerks as if she’s been struck. I move closer.

“Do you know what happened to her? Why can’t I find anything about her on the internet? Did Chadwick try to talk to you about her?”

Ms. Marguerite looks around, as if worried the house has ears. “I was very young and very poor when I first came to this island. Mrs. McBride … was so kind to me. Offered me a job, a place to stay. But then she was gone and the Watsons …” She holds her breath for a moment before looking at me. Then she shakes her head, softly. “I only know of one owner of this house.”

“What’s going on in here, ladies?” Mr. Watson asks, appearing behind us.

“Nothing, sir,” Ms. Marguerite says, darting away from me.

I stare at her, trying to understand. She knew Alice. Why can’t she talk about her? Or why won’t she talk about her?

“Kaylani!” Mrs. Watson calls from the other room. “Miles is here for you, dear.”

It takes me a moment to leave. I want to ask more questions. But Mr. Watson doesn’t move from his spot. Just stands there, smiling. I run out the kitchen, straight to the porch, where Miles is waiting.

“Hey! How’s it—”

But Miles’s eyes are rimmed red. He stands with his arms crossed.

“What’s up?” I ask, my stomach tightening.

“You lied to me,” he hisses.

“What?”

“You lied to me!” he shouts, stomping his foot. “Someone turned in Chadwick’s phone at the arcade’s lost and found. Last thing he searched was information on your dad’s trial. Fraud? Embezzlement?”

“My dad didn’t do any of that stuff,” I blurt out, my neck hot. “Someone framed him!”

“Whatever! When the police came over with the phone, they said that you and London were at the party on the beach that night. That you were the last ones to see Chad alive. All this time, you made me think you were helping me find out what happened to my brother, that you cared … when really you’ve been trying to … trying to …”

His voice cracks as tears spill over.

“I’m sorry, Miles! I didn’t mean to …”

“So, what did Cassie do? Just tell me! Why are you covering for her?”

“I’m not! I swear,” I say, my voice cracking.

“Hey!”

We spin around and find London watching us. She stomps toward Miles. “You don’t get to come over here throwing accusations around like that. Cassie didn’t do anything! The police know it, they have proof. Kaylani helped find it!”

I swallow. The video proof we found is only, what I learned in class, called circumstantial. I can’t say without a doubt Cassie wasn’t involved. But London doesn’t seem to care. The evidence is enough for her.

“Meanwhile, Kaylani has been trying to help you, so don’t come over here, yelling at her like that,” London goes on angrily. I’m stunned to see her stand up for me.

Miles looks at me, his arms still crossed, waiting for an explanation. I take a deep breath and decide to tell the whole truth. What I should’ve done from the start.

“Yes, London and I were at the beach party,” I admit. “We saw the fight between Chadwick and Jaden. Jaden took us home and Cassie left with Chadwick. That’s all

I know. London made me promise to keep it a secret so I could use her phone, so my dad could get in touch with me.” I throw her a nasty glare. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

London rolls her eyes at Miles. “You want to help your brother, I wanted to help my sister. Kaylani’s been helping us both.”

Miles seems to soften, going from angry to sad.

“I’m so sorry, Miles,” I say. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I do want to help you find out what happened to your brother. That’s why—wait. Did you say someone turned in the phone?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles.

“If Chadwick was alone, wouldn’t he have had his phone when he went into the water? Or left it in his car? And why hasn’t anyone found it until now?” I ask.

Miles blinks for a moment and gasps, pointing a finger at me.

“The killer had the phone!” he exclaims. “All this time. He must know we’re onto him.”

London’s eyes flare. “OMG. You’re right! He probably wiped it clean by now.”

“But he left the search history. And … why would Chadwick be that interested in my dad?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“Well, you tell a stranger your dad’s in jail, the first thing they’re going to do is google to find out what he did,” London says.

“But to stop partying to do it … doesn’t seem like him,” Miles argues.

I shrug, thinking back to that night. “I don’t know. One minute we were talking about the Watson house and deeds and stuff. The next, he walked away and was on his phone.”

Miles shakes his head. “I’m going to tell my parents everything. Maybe they can talk to the police.”

“I’m going to talk to Cassie,” London says.

“We have to be careful,” I warn, still wary of Cassie. The look in her eye when she tried to make me jump … I’ll never forget it. “Whoever killed Chadwick may be trying to send us a message to back off.”

“Do you want to?” London asks, biting her lip. “Back off?”

“No,” Miles says with a sharp shake of his head. “Whoever it is, we’re gonna find him.”

London looks scared and I don’t blame her. Feels like sharks are everywhere. On land and in the sea.

“Well, we need to work fast. They probably know we’re onto them,” I say. “They may even try to leave the island.”

“I’m on it,” Miles says. He runs down the porch steps, hops on his bike, and pedals away.

London runs back into the house, and I stand outside, taking another long look at the lighthouse. Chadwick’s obsession with this place, my dad … somehow, I know this all leads back to the Watsons, but I can’t figure out how. I tap my chin, thinking. Suddenly, I remember something Miles mentioned.

“Chadwick said they owe everyone who works for them money.”

After dinner, I slip out the house and pedal straight to the Campground. There weren’t many of those colorful gingerbread houses. It shouldn’t be hard to find where he lives.

I knock on a few doors until I reach the green-and-purple house with the weird designs around the outside. Jaden answers.

“Kaylani? What are you doing here?”

“I need your help,” I say.

He looks around, as if waiting for someone else to pop out of the shadows. He opens the door and lets me in.

Inside is just as tiny as everyone mentioned. The furniture even looks shrunken. Jaden straightens stuff quickly, like he’s embarrassed.

“We’re not always here,” Jaden says. “House is too small for us. So what’s up?”

I didn’t want Miles risking his life trying to talk to Jaden. Jaden’s always been nice to me. Maybe I can talk to him, reason with him. I owe it to Miles.

“You’ve worked for the Watsons for years, right?” I ask.

He crosses his arms. “Yeah.”

“Do they owe you money or something?”

He squints. “What? What is this about?”

I grab the keys out of my pocket.

“Jaden, I found these in Cassie’s room. I think they’re the keys to Chadwick’s truck. The police say Cassie was the last person to see Chadwick before he died.”

He stares at the keys for a moment.

“I’ve seen you around, talking to Cassie. You guys are more than friends. I think you know what happened to Chadwick. I think you’re trying to get Cassie to admit it too. The Watsons owe you money. You don’t have to keep being loyal to them.”

Jaden suddenly looks real tired. Like he’s been carrying something too heavy for him to handle. He sits on a stool, rubbing his hands together.

He chuckles. “You are too little to understand.”

I cross my arms. “I’m not a baby!”

“Let me see,” he says, his hand reaching for the keys.

I hesitate before showing them. In a split second, he snatches them out of my hand.

“Hey!” I reach for them, but it’s too late, he holds them high, examining them like one of them Rubik’s Cubes. He shakes his head and hands them back to me.

“These aren’t his keys.”

“But they’re to a truck, right?”

“Not Chadwick’s truck, no. They’re probably Cassie’s keys. She has the same truck as Chadwick, back in Connecticut. She got it when she heard he had one. She was always so obsessed with that guy. Meanwhile, we’ve known each other since we were kids. We used to play together.”

He shakes his head again.

“I love her,” he admits.

I wince, wanting to barf at the lovey-dovey voice he uses. He’s in love with Cassie? He clearly doesn’t know her.

“I’ve been in love with that girl for a while. I’m trying to get her to see I’m the best guy for her. Mrs. Watson said she would help me, if I helped her. She knows the only way I could still see Cassie is if the Watsons stay on the island. If they leave, I’ll never see her again.”

“Mrs. Watson?!” I frown. “What do you mean? Help her do what?”

Jaden hesitates but says nothing.

“I don’t want Cassie to get in trouble,” I say. “London is really worried about her. But maybe if we help her together, it won’t be so bad. Chadwick didn’t deserve this. But, Jaden …”

Suddenly, the door flings open. Five police officers bust in, grabbing Jaden, slamming him against the wall. For a split second I wonder if this is what it looked like when they arrested Dad, and my heart plummets.

That’s when I recognize one of the detectives that was at the Watsons’ home, questioning us.

“Jaden, you are under arrest for the murder of Chadwick Cooper.”

“WHAT?” I scream. “No, this is a mistake.”

They slap silver handcuffs on Jaden’s wrists. He doesn’t move much. Just stands there, tears in his eyes.

“I didn’t kill him,” he sobs. “You have to believe me.”

Officer Redhead does a double take. “Kaylani! What are you doing here?”

“I …”

The other officer grabs my arm. “Let’s go. We’re taking you home.”

After the Watsons send the police off, they come back into the house, into the living room, where the rest of us are waiting. I sit with my hands folded, legs shaking.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Kaylani,” Mrs. Watson says.

I’ve never seen Mrs. Watson mad before. It’s jarring on such a sweet old lady. But I keep thinking back to what Jaden said. What was he helping her do?

“For starters, what were you doing with Jaden?” Mrs. Watson demands. “Why are you running around town asking all these questions? Do you know how it makes us look? What people are saying about us?”

I can’t hold it in any longer. Jaden may be going to jail for something he didn’t do. Just like Dad.

“I think I know what happened to Chadwick,” I say. Without fully thinking it through, I blurt it out. “It was Cassie.”

Cassie’s eyes flare. “What!”

Mr. Watson shakes his head.

“I’m not making this up,” I insist. “Cassie was with Chadwick that night. She was the last one to see him alive. Ask her about her sandals!”

Cassie frowns. “Sandals? What are you talking about?”

“Your sandals. They’re covered in dry blood. I saw them myself. I bet you it’s Chadwick’s blood.”

London whips around to Cassie. “What is she talking about?”

Cassie scoffs and storms out the room, heading upstairs. I glance around at the others. Are they just going to let her go? She may throw away evidence.

London looks baffled. The Watsons remain stoic.

“She was the one who stole money from the charity,” I continue. “She bought me and London all those fancy clothes. You can check the security camera in the gallery like I said. Or go to the stores—they’ll remember, she’s the one who paid for everything.”

The Watsons look at each other, as if exhausted or just plain fed up with me.

Cassie runs back downstairs.

“You mean these?” She holds up the sandals.

“Yes! You haven’t worn them since the day Chadwick died.”

“Yeah, it’s blood. But blood from his nose, you idiot. It got on my shoes when I was trying to help him clean up. Chadwick pulled into Nomans, telling me some ridiculous story about the house, how it wasn’t ours, and how Grandma stole it. Which, of course, is a total lie. Grandma bought this house with her own money, and everyone knows it! People are just jealous. He said Jaden was in on the whole thing. Chadwick had all kinds of papers in his car, alleged proof.”

My heart plummets. I glance at Mrs. Watson, whose face remains hard.

“That’s why I left him that night. He was being a jerk, making up any excuse as to why he didn’t want to be with me anymore. Saying Grandma’s the one keeping us apart, because he ‘knows the truth about her.’ I texted Jaden and told him where I was. He came and got me.” She throws the sandals on the floor. “I tried to clean them as best I could, but they’re ruined. I haven’t worn them since.”

London stares at the shoes, then looks up, her eyes narrowing at me. But I’m too caught up in what Cassie just said. My mind races fast to come up with a way to explain it all. But nothing comes out of my mouth.

Mrs. Watson shakes her head, stepping toward me.

“Kaylani. After everything we’ve done for you. For your family. This is how you repay us. By accusing my granddaughter of murder!”

I take a step back. For the first time, it finally dawns on me how much danger I’m in. But no one would believe me. There’s no way of even calling for help.

“I’m taking her back tonight,” Mrs. Watson announces.

Mr. Watson blinks in surprise. “Miranda … be reasonable. It’s late. Let’s lay out a plan in the morning.”

“No. We can’t have her staying another night. I’ve had enough.”

“How are you going to get her off the island?” Mr. Watson asks. “Last ferry took off already.”

“There’s a freight ferry I’m sure I can procure a ride on. I’ll call her grandmother on the way. She’s my responsibility, Sampson. No one else. Inviting her here was my mistake. I shouldn’t have exposed us.”

Mr. Watson opens his mouth but then backs down.

Mrs. Watson turns to me. “Get your things. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

The bedroom I shared with London feels extra small as I stand in the middle, hiccuping tears. How could I have been so wrong about everything? What kind of lawyer could I ever be?

Mrs. Watson seems to have packed most of my stuff for me before I even came home. Like she already planned to send me away. All that’s left to do is grab my book bag. As I slump back down the stairs, I think of Miles. I wasn’t expecting to be ripped away like this, without even a chance to tell him goodbye. He’ll never hear my side of things. Just what the Watsons said I did.

As I pass the hallway with the photos, something catches my eye. Something I didn’t notice my first day here. I set down the bag and lean in closer. There’s Mrs. Watson, standing with the Polar Bears on Inkwell Beach. Looking closer, there was an arm around her shoulder, a person cut out of the frame. I quietly slip the photo out the frame and unfold the right side of the picture. My lip trembles as I stare at Alice McBride, grinning next to Mrs. Watson.

“Kaylani.”

I jump, the frame slipping out of my hands, the glass shattering on the floor. Down the hall, Mr. Watson watches me. My whole body goes numb, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

Ms. Marguerite comes running out of the kitchen with a broom. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry about it. Here, watch your step.”

She grabs the photo out of my hand, flashing me a frightened look, a hand gripping my wrist.

“I only know of one owner of this house.”

“You know something, don’t you?” I whisper. “Please, you have to help me.”

She swallows. “Living here is all I know. I can’t risk losing my home. You have to go.”

Mr. Watson approaches, his slow steps hard against the floor.

“Here. Let me help you with that,” he says, grabbing my bag, which seems way heavier than it did when I arrived. I flash Ms. Marguerite another look, but she scurries off to the kitchen.

London, Cassie, and Mrs. Watson are waiting by the front door.

“I talked to her grandmother,” Mrs. Watson says as she shrugs into a black sweater. “I told her everything and she gave me permission to put her on a Peter Pan bus from Woods Hole.”

“The bus?” London repeats.

We all turn at the sound of her squeaky voice. It’s the most she’s said all night.

I swallow. Grandma would never let me take a bus out of state. She barely liked me crossing the street by myself.

But I can’t say that. I can’t let on that I know something is wrong. I just have to get out of the house and away from the Watsons. Once I’m near other people, I can scream for help.

“She can carry her own things,” Mrs. Watson snaps. Mr. Watson sets my bag down mournfully. I struggle to manage it down the stairs.

Cassie stands on the porch next to London, watching me follow Mrs. Watson to her car. Everything inside me screams I shouldn’t go with her. Maybe I should call Miles. Maybe he can convince his parents to meet me at the ferry. Maybe I can escape her there.

“Can I make a phone call?” I ask.

“No,” she snaps. “We’re leaving now.”

She pops open the trunk, signaling me to put my bag inside. I heave the bag up and fumble, falling halfway into the trunk. That’s when I spot it.

The wallet. No money left inside. Just some cards and two tickets to J-Roc’s concert.

My heart starts pounding hard.

“Oh no,” I whisper to myself. Behind my bag is another thin bag full of gardening tools. The sharp weeding tools, ones that someone could use to make those shark teeth marks. It was all right in front of me, all this time.

I straighten up and slowly back away from the trunk.

“Sharks circle their prey, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and frequently approaching from below before they ambush.”

“I knew I should have never trusted you!”

I whip around to find London behind me, her eyes full of tears, face enraged.

“From the day we met, I knew you were going to be trouble,” she hisses.

I take a deep breath, my hands shaking. If I refuse to go with Mrs. Watson, it’ll look suspicious. No one will believe anything I say. I have to play this smart. London may be my only hope.

“You’re right,” I say. “You’ve been right about a lot of things. J-Roc isn’t the best rapper. I’m sorry.”

London’s head jerks back. But she remains silent. I don’t wait for a response. I climb into the passenger seat of Mrs. Watson’s car in a state of shock.

The thing about sharks is, when you see them coming, it’s already too late.

In the quiet of the car, I can hear my heart thumping. Mrs. Watson stares ahead, both hands on the wheel. She checks her mirrors a few times, as if worried we’re being followed.

My mind is racing. Mrs. Watson did it. She killed Chadwick.

She killed Chadwick, and she probably killed Alice McBride.

And now I’m next.

“It’s already been a long summer, Kaylani. Maybe our last one at the house.”

“Last one?” I say, just to keep her talking.

“I thought I could hold it all together but seems like too many people are going to know the truth soon enough.”

I take a deep breath. If I’m going to die, I want some answers.

“Why Chadwick?” I ask her.

She sighs.

“Chadwick was a sweet boy. But he was asking too many questions. He found out more than he should’ve and he was still digging. Asking questions, making calls. Just like your father.”

“Dad? What does he have to do with this?”

She chuckles. “It was an honest mistake, dear. Your father thought he was doing us a favor, putting our estate together, but started poking his nose into things, asking about deeds and such. He would’ve found out. I had to get rid of him without him suspecting it was me. Getting some money out of it was a bonus.”

It feels as if my heart has stopped working. I grip hold of my seat.

“You … you …”

“It’s only a few years of prison. And I was going to take good care of you while he was away. I invited you to the Vineyard. All expenses paid. Yes, you had to deal with my London, the ungrateful brat. But it was better than staying in Brooklyn, right?”

I can’t speak. I’m too stunned to speak.

Mrs. Watson shrugs. “Chadwick had come by earlier that day with his suspicions and said if I didn’t tell Cassie, he would. He was still in love with her, the poor fool. But he had no real proof of anything. Except Chadwick must have put two and two together, once you told him about your father. He called and told me he was going to tell Cassie everything. Tell everyone what I had done.

“That night, Jaden texted me that Chadwick was with Cassie. Thankfully, my granddaughter is dumb enough to believe everything we tell her, the little thief. I told Jaden to go pick her up. Once I knew Chadwick was alone, I drove over to Nomans and took care of him. One hit to the head was all I needed.” She smirks. “I’m a lot stronger than I look. But Jaden helped me dump his body off the bridge. After all, I did promise Jaden he could have Cassie. I couldn’t let Chadwick destroy our family’s name. I couldn’t lose the house. We’re nothing without it. And you, thinking you could study some law terms and help your father out? You’re just as naive as he was.”

We drive along in silence, the road growing darker, as if we’re swimming deeper into the island, away from anyone who could see us.

“Where are we going?” I ask. It only took fifteen minutes to get to the ferry and that was with traffic.

Mrs. Watson smiles. “You know what, before you leave the Vineyard … you have to make the jump. Everyone does.”

The jump. She wants me to jump off the bridge. The same one Chadwick did.

“No,” I gasp, a sob in my voice, my whole body trembling. “I just want to go home. I promise, I won’t say anything to anyone!”

She eyes me. “You have to, dear. It’s tradition.”

Mrs. Watson turns off her headlights, the half moonlight guiding her way as she pulls up next to the bridge. The tall grass shields her car. I scan the area, trying to decide how I can escape. Can I outrun her? She seems so feeble but somehow was able to overpower Chadwick.

“Get out the car,” she says, flinging her door open. She pops the trunk, grabbing the weed tool I’d seen her use before.

I step out, tears soaking my face, my knees weak.

“Move,” she orders, poking me in the back with the stick, the prongs piercing me. I let out a scream and shuffle forward, toward the bridge.

“Mrs. Watson, please,” I beg. “I promise I won’t tell anyone what happened. PLEASE!”

She nods at the railing. “Go ahead, dear. Climb on up.”

I glimpse over the railing. The water is pitch-black. Impossible to see what could be lurking.

“But … but … I can’t swim.”

She nudges my back with a shovel. It pricks my shoulder blade, tearing my shirt.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Now climb!” she shouts, jabbing me again. “Faster!”

Wheezing, I scramble up, my legs and arms shaking. I reach the top and turn to face Mrs. Watson, wobbling, trying to balance myself on the wooden beam like a gymnast.

“Go on,” she says. “Jump.”

Speechless, I shake my head and she swipes the stick at me, like a cat claw. I shuffle away with a scream, my arm flinging around. I can’t fight her. I can’t run. The only way through it … is if I jump. I glance over my shoulder, study the water, and realize what I can do.

She swipes at me again and I step back farther, nearly falling. Just one more step, then maybe … maybe …

But in the distance, flashing lights. The same as that night on the beach. Mrs. Watson pauses to stare, realizing they’re coming our way. And just as I’m about to risk it all by jumping off the rail and running toward them, Mrs. Watson shoves my stomach, sending me flying.

The first time I saw that little boy jump off the bridge plays in my head over and over, a movie on repeat. The way he jumped, straight down, holding his nose, slipping into the water, a thread through a needle.

So that’s what I do—I hold in my scream, grip my nose, squeeze myself into a thin line, and fall straight, hitting the water with a loud splash. Then … nothing.

Just the sounds of bubbles in my ears, the world quiet. I fall and fall deeper into the dark bottomless ice-cold ocean. Suddenly, I come to an abrupt stop and my body starts floating back to the surface. I flap my arms, kick my legs, and pop up with a gasping breath, the crisp night air hitting my throat. I slap the water, looking for anything to hold on to. Through my blurry vision, I see the rocks jutting out under the bridge. I just have to swim and grab hold of one. I kick my legs wildly and try to grip the water as if it’s a surface I can crawl across.

Don’t splash too much. Sharks attack at night, I can’t help but think.

Swim, I keep telling myself. You can do it. But the water is strong, the current latching on to my waist. I can barely keep afloat. My clothes feel heavy, weighing me back down. I cough up salty water, staying focused on the rocks, but they look too far away.

“Help!” I cry out, wondering if anyone can hear me, wondering if Mrs. Watson is watching me sink to the bottom just like she did with Chadwick. And just as I feel my body start to give up, something hits my foot.

SHARK!

But no. It’s something hard, a rock. The shore is closer. I kick harder, pushing myself toward the boulders, landing on them with a smack. The green slime is slippery, I can’t pull myself up, and panic takes over.

“Helpppp!” I scream.

A bright burst of white light hits the water from above. Voices. I hear another splash, then I hear a man’s voice yelling over the waves before his arm loops around me.

“It’s okay! I got you! It’s okay!”

The police let London stay with me in my hospital room. Other than some scratches on my hands from holding on to the rocks, and a hacking cough, I am okay. I am alive.

When the police arrested Mrs. Watson, she didn’t put up a fight. She went willingly, as if she was waiting for this day.

I told them about Chadwick’s wallet and the set of tools in her trunk. They have everything they need to put her away for Chadwick’s murder. They even matched those tire tracks I saw by the bridge to her car.

With Mrs. Watson’s arrest, Ms. Marguerite finally started to talk: She knew Alice McBride’s handwriting better than her own, knew that the “will” that Ms. McBride left was a fake, matching Mrs. Watson’s handwriting instead. Mrs. Watson had always wanted the house, was always sniffing around and making herself at home. Ms. Marguerite even remembered the day Alice McBride left for the beach with Mrs. Watson and never came back.

But if Ms. Marguerite ever told anyone, she’d be homeless, so she knew to keep quiet.

Until now. The police have decided to charge Mrs. Watson with Alice McBride’s murder as well.

But there’s more.

Mrs. Watson has been stealing money from their charity events for years. But as time went on, bills piled up. So Mrs. Watson found a way to go back to her old company and transfer money to an overseas account under another employee’s name.

My dad’s.

London stares at the TV, drinking a box of apple juice. She was the one who called the police. She was the one who saved me. While Mrs. Watson was driving me to the bridge, Jaden was in an interrogation room telling the detectives everything, including how he helped her get rid of Chadwick’s body. That’s why, when London called, the detectives took her seriously.

“How did you know?” I ask, my voice still raspy. I’ve been wanting to ask the question all day.

She sighs. “When she left, she made a right out of the driveway, instead of a left, toward the ferry. I remember your grandma. She wouldn’t let you cross the street alone, she definitely wouldn’t let you take a bus alone. So I googled the ports. There were no ferries going out. The freights only leave on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Then I checked my room, and all the stuff Cassie had bought me and you was gone. Guess I did what you would’ve done. I noticed things.”

I raise an eyebrow, impressed. “But how did you really know?”

She turns to face me, her eyes red and swollen. I know what it took to call, to turn in your own family.

“You don’t lie. And you wouldn’t lie about J-Roc.”

The steamship shrieks a whistle as the engine groans. Cars start driving up the ramp as the portmen order everyone around.

London and I walk like two zombies behind the line of people waiting to board. She hasn’t said much all morning, and I don’t blame her. Mr. Watson dropped us off for the nine o’clock ferry. I still can’t believe all these years he had no clue what his wife was up to. No clue how they got the house they lived in. But the stunned look on his face made it clear he had no idea. Police called him an unknowing accomplice. My grandma would call him a clueless old man. Grandma has a way with words.

He hugged London for a long time, assuring her that everything was going to be fine and that Mrs. Watson would be home soon, telling her that it was all a big misunderstanding. Sometimes I wish adults didn’t lie to kids. Especially when everything happens right in front of our faces.

Cassie had to stay behind to talk to the police. She didn’t even hug her sister goodbye. London didn’t say anything to her either.

Mr. Watson made arrangements for London’s parents to pick us up from the ferry at Woods Hole. They’ll drive me back to Brooklyn, where my mom and grandma are eagerly waiting.

With all the new information about what Mrs. Watson did, Mom is busy working with the lawyers to clear Dad. With any luck, he’ll be home before the school year starts. All I’ve ever wanted.

“Kaylani!”

I spin around and see Miles waving from the dock. He starts running toward me.

“Miles!” I rush off the line to meet him halfway.

“Whew. I thought I missed you!” Miles laughs. “My dad gave me a ride. I wanted to say goodbye. I couldn’t let you leave without giving you this.”

He slips something into my palm. I stare at it, laughing. It’s the perfect gift. I glance back at London, waiting.

“Thanks, Kaylani,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, for everything.”

“No, thank you, Miles. You helped me too.”

And it’s true. I forgot what it’s like to have friends, to have fun, even in the middle of terrible stuff happening around us. Miles and I quickly exchange numbers and gamer handles, promising to keep in touch.

He grins. “Bro, you’re going to be the bestest, youngest lawyer ever.”

I laugh. “How about just the best. I think I’ll take my time.”

As the ferry pulls away from the port, I take a deep breath, watching the seagulls flap around, the fishing boats trailing beside us. London stares at the island one last time before turning her back to it. She wraps her arms around the book bag sitting on her lap, squeezing it tight.

“Are you going to miss it?” I ask.

London meets my eyes. She and I both know she probably won’t be back to Martha’s Vineyard for a long time. Her family has done too much damage.

“I’ll miss the beach. I’ll miss the lobster rolls, Mad Martha’s, pancakes at Linda Jean’s. I’ll even miss that silly arcade. But I won’t miss the … pressure. What it took to be a Watson. I won’t miss everyone talking about us.” She sighs. “I’m sorry I was so mean to you.”

I shrug. “It’s all right.”

She gives me a once-over, as if she doesn’t believe me.

“We used to be good friends,” she says. “Best friends. Then I moved away and I feel like you stayed in Brooklyn and forgot about me. Did you ever want to visit me?”

“Did you ever want to visit me?” I shoot back.

“Yeah. I did. But things were changing.” She blows out some air. “God, this is so awful. What Grandma did to your dad. To Chadwick. To you. Everyone is going to know. Not just on the island, but back home too. My school … I can’t go back there. And I can’t even believe you’re talking to me now.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. But you need friends at a time like this. You can’t hide from the world.”

I learned that the hard way.

London laughs, wiping a tear away. “Okay. Even though we’re friends, I’m still going to run if you throw up on this boat again.”

“Not this time!”

“Why?”

I hold up my wrist, flashing a new rubber bracelet. “Miles hooked me up with this seasickness band. He said he can’t even go fishing with his dad without one.”

She laughs, her eyes welling up again. “As crazy as it sounds, I’m going to miss those guys. Miles, Deion … after all this, I may never see them again. They probably think I’m a jerk.”

“You have their numbers, right?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles.

“My dad’s my best friend, and even though he was away and I couldn’t see him, I still talked to him. Friends can be friends from anywhere in the world.”

She sniffs. “Like Connecticut and Brooklyn.”

I smile. “Like Connecticut and Brooklyn.”

As we take to the sea, I look out at the water. Not a shark in sight.

Let me start by thanking God for such an incredible life. I want to thank my family for holding everything down while I finished this book. Especially during my postpartum madness.

To my baby girl, when you eventually read this, know that I was writing it while you were in and outside my tummy. You were very much a part of the process, and I hope that never changes. I love you so much!

To my agent, Jenny Bent: Thanks for believing in me despite my nervousness and always encouraging me to try something new and dope. To my brilliant editor, Aimee: You are so patient, kind, and understanding. Thank you for molding me into an MG author, and in turn, molding this story into something wonderful. I know this took longer than you hoped but what a ride!

Special thanks to the entire Scholastic team for voting on the title of this book, taking a chance on a wild card author, and championing me. Your enthusiasm is so appreciated and such a breath of fresh air!

Tiffany D. Jackson is the New York Times bestselling author of Monday’s Not Coming, Allegedly, Let Me Hear a Rhyme, Grown, White Smoke, Santa in the City, The Weight of Blood, Marvel’s Storm: Dawn of a Goddess, and Trick-or-Treating in the City, and she is the co-author of Blackout and Whiteout. A Coretta Scott King–John Steptoe New Talent Award winner and an NAACP Image Award nominee, she received her bachelor of arts in film from Howard University and has over a decade in TV/film experience. A Brooklyn native, she currently splits her time between the borough she loves and the South, most likely while multitasking. Learn more at writeinbk.com.

YOUNG ADULT NOVELS

Storm: Dawn of the Goddess

The Weight of Blood

White Smoke

Grown

Let Me Hear a Rhyme

Monday’s Not Coming

Allegedly

PICTURE BOOKS

Santa in the City, illustrated by Reggie Brown

Trick-or-Treating in the City, illustrated by Sawyer Cloud

Copyright © 2025 by Tiffany D. Jackson

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

First edition, July 2025

Cover art © 2025 by Eben Nwaokpani

Cover design by Omou Barry

e-ISBN 978-1-338-84993-6

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