TWENTY-TWO

I wasn’t ready.

My messenger bag slams onto the mattress. I flip it open, start frantically tossing anything important into it. My uncharged Bluetooth speaker. My favorite white shorts that I hadn’t yet handed to housekeeping to wash. The sea-glass anklet that Josh bought—stole—for me.

I dump the fresh thermos of bush tea Aaron brewed, leave the red hair ribbon Jada lent to me. I’m not afraid of the duppy anymore. I hate it too much to fear it.

I bend down next to the bed.

The lockbox.

Slowly, I tease it out. There’s a pounding in my ears.

I have to tell the others.

Before the reporter does. Before the Halls do.

Can’t give Luis and Jada a kiss goodbye. Can’t thank Wesley for every delicious dessert he made especially for me. Can’t apologize to Gregory for never seeing the difference between the allamandas and the yellow bells.

Run.

I’m out of time.

“I wasn’t ready.”

If the ghost’s here, it doesn’t respond. Because now that it’s swooped in and ruined my new life every which way, it doesn’t have shit to say. No more broken lights or blood bulls or honeysuckle in my nose.

“It should have been my choice,” I push. “I wanted to tell everyone when I was ready. You took that from me.” I rise to my feet, throw a shirt into the bag. Then a dress. A skirt. “You wouldn’t leave me alone. You took everything from me.”

Silence.

“Answer me.” I slam a hand against the mattress. “The least you could do is answer me.”

The duppy’s unfazed. This is all its fault, and it doesn’t even have the courtesy to respond. To care.

My brain breaks.

There’s simply me and the adrenaline and the grinding of my teeth until my jaw aches. I pull a framed art print off the wall above my bed. Swing it to the ground. Glass shatters. Fragments into shards that skip across the wood floor.

“Do you hear me?” I yell. “Do you have any idea what you’ve fucking done?”

The ceiling fan whirs.

The floorboards creak.

Alone again.

ORA

Ora takes her time answering. But can I blame her for hesitating? Just because we hung out to say goodbye to Josh doesn’t mean we’re okay. I should let her be. But the one thing I can offer her—and the rest of the group—is an explanation.

And I’m not sure there’s anywhere else for me to go.

I leave the key to Ian’s office on my vanity.

The house is eerily quiet as I haul my few belongings. The air’s sharp with the scent of Dettol. Like it’s the first day all over again. I take in shiny floors and pristine portraits, one-of-a-kind rugs, and that massive chandelier in the foyer. Black and white, white and black. There’s this chasm in my chest as I hurry past everything. This was supposed to be my home away from home.

When I first arrived, I thought Blackbead was beautiful but silent, like a museum.

I was wrong. Blackbead is a tomb. It’s where service and honor go to die.

I slip out through the staff exit. Trek to the backyard, knock on the guesthouse door.

Aaron stands at the entrance like he isn’t sure whether he’s happy to see me.

“Where’s Gregory?” I ask.

“Think he went into town to pick up supplies. Just trimmed some bushes and trees, now need to tie down a few things for safety. Why?”

“Did Ora text you?”

“She did. Ask us all to come by.” He studies the darkening sky. “Not sure about that.”

“I need a ride to her house. I really hate to bother you, but—”

He waves me off. “Don’t worry. I got you.” He dips inside, returns with helmets and a jacket for himself. We walk to his motorcycle, and he secures my bag. His hands work with intent, with care.

“Thank you,” I blurt.

“For what?”

“For the other day. When you said I wasn’t a coward.” I push up the sleeves of my sweatshirt. “You were way too kind, but—”

“No, none of that,” he says. “I mean, you welcome. But don’t need the thanks. Was just speaking truth.” He reaches out, waits, then holds my hand in his. For once, the monster inside me doesn’t stir. I commit to memory the warmth of his skin against mine. “I know who you are.”

I nod. Get on the motorcycle.

I wish he’d never have to know me.

But he will.

We reach our destination: Ora’s house for the first and likely last time.

It’s a little single-story bungalow painted as aquamarine as the sea. Dents mark up the metal roof. Someone’s boarded up the windows. We pull up next to a rough-looking sedan in the driveway. Ora’s mom must be home. There are two other cars parked in the front yard—Josh and Simone.

Everyone’s here.

Thunder rolls in the distance.

“We goin’ in?” Aaron asks, surveying how the palms sway and bend from the powerful gales. Part of me wants to stay here, let the storm sweep me away. But I’ve done so much running already.

Aaron has a spare key to Ora’s place. Knowing this hurts. He lets us in.

The vibe is off the moment we enter. As if the lightning outside has somehow found its way into the house.

As if everyone already knows what’s going to happen.

Aaron leads me to Ora’s living room. She’s posted up in front of the TV, fretting over the weather report—and I’ve never seen her worry about anything but Aaron. Josh plates a snack platter of breadfruit chips and peppered shrimp, leftover food I’m sure he stole from Blackbead right after they fired him. And what could they do about it now? Simone sits on the wicker sofa and taps anxiously at her phone screen.

They all look up.

Ora breathes a sigh of relief. “You made it. I was losing my head.” She stands and hugs Aaron. Then she motions to do the same with me. Hesitates.

God, I hurt us so much.

I tell the room, “We need to talk.”

“What every person love to hear,” Josh mutters.

Aaron takes a few steps back and faces me. Confused. I want to hold this moment, the moments when he doesn’t know the truth.

But he’s about to. They all are. And I’m going to lose them.

“I know everything’s been weird lately. Everything about me, I mean.” I clear my throat, fight for the words. I don’t have them. “I think I have to explain.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” Aaron says. Sweetly. A savior. And he’s right. I don’t want to.

But it’s what’s right. They need to hear everything from me, not from Lloyd, not from the Halls.

“And what you explaining?” Simone asks.

I swallow.

“Why I’m here.”