I halted at the steps to my townhouse.

“I have to go in, don’t I?” My shoulders slumped at the prospect.

“You can crash in my garage,” Hi offered. “There’s a pop-tent in there somewhere. Heads up, though—our cat uses it as his emergency litter box. It smells pretty bad.”

My nose crinkled. “Charming.”

The last rays of daylight were fading as the sun melted into Schooner Creek. The air remained sticky and warm, one of those classic spring nights in the Lowcountry. I’d probably sleep with my window open, if the bullfrogs weren’t croaking too loudly. So different from the still-frigid gloom of my native Massachusetts.

The walk back from the bunker had taken twenty minutes, mainly because we hadn’t hurried. It’s an easy stroll down the beach, and you can’t get lost. Our block is the only building for miles.

Kit had recently dubbed our neighborhood Exile Acres. The name stuck.

“Later, peeps.” Hi fumbled for keys as he climbed to his front door. “I’m gonna watch Battleship at nine if you guys wanna live chat. Fair warning though—it looks absolutely terrible. Like, shockingly, horrifically bad.” With that, he disappeared inside.

“Bye.” I didn’t move.

A gentle breeze swept off the Atlantic, carrying the bitter tang of sea salt and stirring the azaleas Mrs. Stolowitski had planted along the front walkway. Out over the dunes, fireflies bobbed and winked like floating candles, as a legion of crickets began their nightly serenade.

On Morris, you could close your eyes and pretend the civilized world didn’t exist.

So peaceful. Like a land out of time.

Coop nudged my leg. I reached down and absently stroked his back.

I can’t stand out here forever. Or can I?

“That bad, huh?” Shelton had paused to watch me from his stoop. “I thought ya’ll worked things out?”

“It’s horrible,” I grumbled. “I can stand Whitney in small doses, but suddenly I’ve got a lifetime supply. The hits never stop.”

“Good luck with that.” Shelton waved once, and was gone.

More seconds ticked by.

Coop yipped. Danced a circle. He took a few steps toward the dock, turned, and barked twice.

“I hear ya, dog breath.” Shaking my head. “But we’re already late. Hiding will only make it worse.”

With a piteous sigh, I trudged up to the front door.

Slipping inside, I climbed the three steps to the main level. Before me stretched our living room, dining room, kitchen and breakfast nook, all lined up in a row. To my left, a narrow staircase descended to Kit’s tiny home office and a single-car garage.

Up one flight were two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Thank God.

The top floor, once Kit’s awesome man cave, had recently been transformed into a formal sitting room. Don’t get me started. Double doors opened onto a spacious roof deck with a spectacular ocean view.

Nice digs, if you can handle all the stairs.

Though I barely recognized the place anymore.

Our furniture used to be strictly Ikea. Simple, durable catalog gear to make any yuppie proud. Those days were over.

Delicate antiques now dominated the common areas. Gilded mahogany side tables. Lacquered chests and brazilwood bureaus. A tassel-trimmed silk ottoman. Pointy, upholstered chairs.

At times, I wasn’t sure where I should sit, or what I could touch.

The fancy pieces looked so . . . uncomfortable. Breakable. The bizarrely asymmetrical coffee table seemed destined to collapse at any moment. A pair of living room lamps resembled medieval torture devices.

Worst of all, I’d been evicted from the bedroom facing the ocean. It was the larger chamber of the two—okay, fine, it was the master—but I’d been its sole tenant since joining Kit on Morris. It was mine.

No longer. As Kit explained, the bigger bedroom was better suited to handle a double occupancy. And, with the back room all to myself, I’d still have the most space out of anyone.

Blah blah blah.

I’d been unceremoniously bumped to Kit’s smaller, rear-facing cell. Thanks so much.

Why all the changes?

The reason was sashaying around my kitchen at that very moment.

Whitney Blanche DuBois. My father’s ditzy gal-pal.

The blond bombshell had become a permanent resident at Casa de Kit.

My own private nightmare.

Hurricane Katelyn had shown less mercy to Whitney’s property than to ours. A massive oak had reorganized her kitchen, after crashing through the two stories above it. Pouring rain and gale-force winds had done the rest.

Homeless, Whitney had moved in with us while her place underwent repairs.

Five months later, she showed no signs of ever leaving.

“Tory, darling!” Whitney cooed in her sugary Southern drawl. “I thought we’d discussed being home before sunset. It’s not safe for a girl to wander alone after dark.”

Coop slunk past me and beelined for his food dish. Whitney tracked him from the corner of her eye.

Make no mistake—wolfdog and bimbo did not get along.

Whitney considered Coop a wild animal infesting the property. Coop considered Whitney a meddling interloper disturbing the peace. I backed the wolfdog’s take.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Lost track of time.”

“Don’t talk to your shoes, sweetheart.” Whitney tsked. “A proper lady prides herself on making firm eye contact.”

I fought an urge to flip her the bird. “Thanks for the tip.”

Whitney desperately wanted for us to be friends. But her personality and priorities made it all but impossible. I’d tried my hardest to like her. And failed. Repeatedly.

It is what it is. The woman doesn’t get me, and I can’t fathom her.

But Kit adored his Barbie girl, so I kept those thoughts to myself. As far as he knew, the bimbo and I were getting along okay.

Oh, sure. Everything’s just hunky-dory.

Kit’s an outstanding marine biologist, and a good dad, but he’s not the most perceptive guy on the planet. Or even top half. A fact I’d used to my advantage more than once.

You’re probably wondering about that.

I’d been living with Christopher “Kit” Howard for over a year, ever since my mother was killed in car accident. Broadside. Drunk driver. Mom never stood a chance.

The pain still surfaces unexpectedly. I’ll hear a Rolling Stones song, or see a ratty yellow futon, and boom, it all comes rushing back. A raw wound that never quite heals.

I try to hide the eruptions, but the guys can always tell. They do their best to support me even though it makes them uncomfortable. It’s very sweet, but teenage boys make lousy grief counselors. Same with Kit, though he’s getting better at it.

I’m working things out on my own. Seems easier that way.

If the accident hadn’t happened, I’d likely never have met my father.

A sad thought.

Kit and I got off to a rocky start. He’d had zero idea how to deal with the shattered, weepy teenage girl who’d dropped into his life like an H-bomb. But slowly, we’d learned to trust each other. To peacefully coexist, and even enjoy each other’s company.

We’ll never have a “normal” father-daughter relationship—I call him Kit, and decided to keep my last name—but we weren’t strangers anymore. Real progress had been made since those first awkward weeks.

Until he’d added the ditz to our household, anyway.

And Whitney’s dreadful presence wasn’t the only change.

As if making up for prior negligence, Kit now watched me like a hawk. That’ll happen when your teenage daughter manages to get stalked, attacked, shot at, or arrested every few months.

What can I say? Being Viral is like golfing in a thunderstorm.

Trouble seems to find me.

“That you, sport?” Kit emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron that said “Hail to the Chef.” The mind weeps. “Good walk?”

“Yes.” I swept past Whitney. “It’s getting really nice outside.”

Kit knew my friends and I had a secret clubhouse, but he didn’t pry. Which was fortunate. The bunker’s true scope would blow his mind.

Tossing my bag onto one of the awful chairs, I flopped on the living room couch, the lone piece of furniture to survive Extreme Makeover: Whitney Edition.

I pretended not to notice as Whitney retrieved my bag and hung it by the door.

Grrrrr.

Whitney was a compulsive straightener. I don’t know why it bugged me, but it did.

Whitney walked over and kissed Kit’s cheek. “I was just telling Tory how it’s not wise to walk alone after nightfall.”

“I learned a lot.” Straight-faced.

“Okay, who’s hungry?” Kit forced a smile. “Tory, set the table. Now, please.”

Sometimes I pitied my dad—he often walked on eggshells around the two women in his life.

You brought her here, pal. We were doing just fine before.

I laid out the flatware and took my usual seat. Whitney began distributing her latest masterpiece: chicken-fried steak, okra, mashed potatoes, and butter beans, everything slathered in thick, beefy gravy.

One point I’ll concede—Whitney is a phenomenal cook. Lights out. I can’t imagine how she maintained her figure, eating like that, but I was happy to be along for the ride. Her culinary prowess was the sole perk of sharing a roof.

“Tory!” Whitney flashed synthetically whitened teeth. “Now that you’ve debuted, have you thought about how you’d like to give back to the community? We’ll need to get you admitted first, but there are several interesting committee openings in the Mag League.”

I froze, mid-bite. “The what?”

“The Magnolia League.” Mascaraed lashes fluttered in surprise. “Surely you’ve heard?”

“Can’t say that I have.” Voice flat. I didn’t like where this was going.

Whitney turned disbelieving eyes on Kit. “The Magnolia League of Charleston is only the most exclusive young women’s service organization in the South. I’m sure all of your debutante friends have already joined.”

“My debutante friends? Who would they be, exactly?”

“I don’t understand.” Whitney cocked her head like a sparrow. “I’m referring to the wonderful group of young ladies with whom you shared your introduction. Why, you’re practically sisters now! Members of a debutante class are lifelong friends. You girls will be grouped together when you join the League.”

Blargh.

I’d thought this nonsense dead and buried. Apparently my debut was merely a prelude to a life sentence.

I tried to be diplomatic. “I’m not sure that’s a good fit for—”

“It’s a perfect fit. Tory, this is simply what you do as a member of polite society. It’s also a tremendous honor. Only daughters of the finest families are even considered for admission.” Whitney’s lips thinned. “Frankly, you’re lucky to still be invited, after this nasty court business.”

My jaw clenched. I fought an impulse to say something I’d regret. Whitney describing the Gamemaster’s trial as some kind of embarrassing inconvenience drove me bonkers.

“It’s completely up to you.” Kit gave me a hopeful look. “Might be fun?”

“You simply must continue with your charitable work.” Whitney practically whined.

“I’ll think about it.” Changing the subject. “Everything good at work, Kit?”

“What?” Kit lowered a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Oh, fine, fine. Business as usual. The hurricane damage has been repaired, and the monkeys seem unaffected. Overall, we were very lucky.”

“We need to pay better attention to the social side of things.” Whitney folded her napkin and placed in on her lap. “Your employees need diversions, living out here in the sticks.”

Meaning you do, you harridan.

“There’s much more to do in the city,” I said innocently. “When is your place due to be finished?”

“Not for weeks yet,” Whitney murmured.

Kit dodged my eye. “What diversions did you have in mind, Whitney?”

She perked up. Had been waiting for the question.

“We should host a block party. Right outside, on the front lawn. We could rent a white pavilion, tables and chairs, and serve barbeque and iced tea. Maybe have some games. Croquet. Or even badminton! And door prizes, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” I repeated.

Kit gave me a warning look.

Whitney clapped her hands, delighted by her own idea. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful? And LIRI should cover the entire cost. A gesture like that would show the neighbors how much you care about their well-being.”

“Great idea,” Kit said automatically. “You should organize it.”

Whitney positively beamed. “I’d be honored. Tory, you can help!”

“Fantastic.”

Double blargh.