I follow the tread marks. But high tide’s sweeping over them, washing off the sand. I glance up at the house’s glass prow. The windows are dimly lit.
The woman can’t swim.
I feel sick.
I step under the house again, sheltered from the rain, and take out my cell phone.
The police?
But Brogan himself called them. Reporting the missing persons. And Merrimack worships the guy. He won’t believe one word from me. I stare down at the glowing text message on my screen. The words say so much. And so little.
I type. I know you’re on the yacht.
The cursor blinks. But when there’s no reply, I text a second message.
With your PARENTS. You liar.
Wind bursts out of the darkness. The house shudders. I creep across the concrete pad. One car remains.
Luis’ getaway.
The rage gripping my heart strangles my throat, too. I can’t breathe. All that effort. All that worry. All that time—all so Brogan could dig up some old coins when this island’s nearly deserted. Are you serious?
Cady. If she shares a mother with Tex, then she’s in on the game.
Tex. Total fraud.
Raju—
I yank out my phone. Raju’s in on this game?
His reply is immediate. Raju’s dad hunts for gold.
With Brogan?
Yes.
And you?
I wait. And wait.
But the coward—the stinking coward—doesn’t reply. My fingers shake typing out the next message. You should be ashamed of yourself.
His reply is instant. Taking care of that now.
I sneer at his words and shove the phone back into my pocket. Stepping out of the carport, I can see the front steps. Slick with rain, steep as a mountainside. And if I got to the top, Luis could push me back down. Suicide.
I move along the house’s foundation. High tide washes under that deck Brogan bragged about fishing from. I try the other direction, following the concrete pad to where it meets a panel fence. Seven or eight feet high. I grab the top board and pull myself up. All I get is a glimpse before my hands give out. Equipment, storage. I can’t tell. I press my stinging palms into my wet jeans, cooling the skin, and stare up at the house. No windows on this side. That bad feeling settles into my stomach again.
I jump and grab the fence’s top. This time I throw my right leg over, push myself up, pivot, and drop on the other side.
Equipment. I was right.
One yellow backhoe. Its steel basket’s tucked into the machine’s square base, like a slumbering mechanical dragon. I glance up. No security lights came on when I jumped the fence.
Oh. Right.
Nobody’s supposed to see this thing.
I swing myself into the operator’s seat. Rain slashes the plastic windshield. I lean down, water pouring from my face and hair, but I can’t find the ignition. I do see a red button. The warning label beside it . . . I pull out my phone, shine the light on the sticker.
A stick figure getting electrical shock.
I look around, then press the red button.
There’s click, then an almost silent hum. I put my hand on the dash. An electric backhoe? Whoever heard of—
Brogan.
I lean out of the cab, staring up at the house. The environmentalist. The man who always thinks about the community. A billionaire rich enough to pay someone to build an electric backhoe. No diesel fumes. No nasty carbon emissions.
No noise from a combustion engine.
The perfect, silent digger.
Rain bullets the metal roof while I type another message to Tex. You owe me.
Another instant reply. Agreed.
So how do I get into Brogan’s house? Without being seen.
You don’t.
I place one hand on the metal frame. The electricity still hums through this thing. But after a moment, the dashboard lights dim. Then go out.
I push the red button again. But all I hear is click-click-click. I push again. It’s that ticking sound of a dead battery.
Of course. Used up all the energy digging.
When I lean out of the cab, the wind slaps the fence. I climb carefully onto the cab’s roof, wind flipping my ponytail like a spinning weather vane. I crouch, wait for the next gust to pass, and then I lunge for the far corner of the fence. Splinters dig into my fingers. I hang on, thanking God for rubber toes on Chuck Taylors, giving me a foothold on the wood. Balancing on the edge, I move hand over hand to the corner of the deck. But in the dark, I can’t tell if that platform is ten feet or five feet away. Or fifteen.
But it’s one leap away and—