Chapter 4

Jackson showed up on my doorstep eighty minutes later, soaked to the bone. The second I opened the door, he spoke. “Hannah.”

He’d never said my name before, had never sought me out—never sought anyone out, as far as I knew.

“You need to come with me.” The recluse’s voice was raspier than normal. He didn’t appear inclined to explain his demand.

I didn’t ask.

It wasn’t until we were halfway to the lighthouse that Jackson spoke again. “I should have most of what you need,” he gritted out.

I had to push myself to keep up with him. “Most of what I need for what?”

“Boy’s half-dead.” Jackson picked up speed, his stride and his words both erratically paced. “Head injury. Burned. Nearly drowned.”

Burned. Drowned. Boy. My mouth got there before my brain did: “Hawthorne Island?”

“Explosion threw him from the cliff,” Jackson practically growled. “I fished him out of the water.”

One of the outsiders. In my mind, I could see a boy whose dark green eyes shined with bad ideas and worse ones. I could hear a dry voice inviting me to have a little fun—to set the world on fire.

“It’s a damn miracle the kid survived.” Jackson’s voice grew hoarse. “Fishing’s good on that side of the island, especially during a storm, so I was close. The way that the mansion blew when the lightning struck—there was nothing natural about it.”

“What are you saying?” I came to a halt. “Jackson, when you find someone half-dead, you take them to a hospital!” Why hadn’t I ever bought a cell phone? The money hadn’t seemed worth it, but… “We need to turn back and call nine-one-one.”

“Can’t.” That one word was as harsh as a blow.

“Why the hell not?” I demanded, and for once, there was nothing quiet about my voice, nothing soft or understated.

Jackson grabbed my arm, pulling me onward. “Only word he’s said—screamed—since I pulled him out is kerosene.”

Kerosene. Set the world on fire. Nothing natural about it. My brain churned like stormy waters. “There were three boys,” I said. “Three outsiders. The others—”

“There are no others anymore.” Jackson’s voice broke the way the surface of an icy pond breaks if you hit it with a hammer, cracking in unexpected places. “They’re all dead, except him.”

Which him? I didn’t ask the question. What did it matter? “We have to go back to town,” I said. “We have to call—”

“Four.” Jackson came to a standstill. I stared at him, not understanding what he was saying. “I saw the boat that took their group over to the island this morning.” The fisherman’s words came out stilted. “There weren’t three passengers on that boat, Hannah. There were four.”

Suddenly, I knew. I knew why Jackson’s voice was cracking. I knew why he kept saying my name. I knew who the fourth person on Hawthorne Island was.

Maybe I’ll see you around, my sister had told the outsider boy.

“Kaylie,” I whispered.

Jackson Currie might have been a recluse, but he still knew the people in this town, and everyone knew the Rooneys.

And Kaylie—she glowed.

“No,” I said. Jackson was acting like there weren’t any other survivors, like there couldn’t have been, but there was more to Hawthorne Island than the mansion. If she’d been far enough away when the house blew—

I wrenched my arm from the fisherman’s hand. I had to find a boat. I had to get to my sister.

“Coast Guard’s out there, fighting the fire,” Jackson told me. “Cops’ll be there soon—if they aren’t already. And I’m telling you, Hannah… there’s no way.” He closed his eyes. “Four kids went into the mansion. Only one came out, right before it blew.”

Only one—and not her. Air felt like shards in my lungs. The world threatened to spin.

Jackson caught me by both arms this time, forcing me to look at him. “He’s in agony, Hannah. He’s dying. And if he and his friends cost a member of the Rooney family her life…”

My ears rung. Who the hell did Jackson Currie think he was to talk about my sister being dead?

Not Kaylie.

Not my Kaylie.

“What do you think happens if I take him to the hospital?” Jackson pressed. “If we so much as call an ambulance or the cops, what do you think happens next?”

I didn’t want to hear that question. I didn’t want to give it purchase in my mind. All I wanted to do was prove to myself that Jackson was wrong. Kaylie hadn’t gone out to Hawthorne Island with those boys. And if she had, she’d survived. She was dancing—somewhere—with wild abandon. Or she was at home, sleeping curled in a little ball beneath the covers, the way she had since she was a little girl. She was laughing or hungover or both.

She was fine.

But my brain answered Jackson’s question, all of its own accord, like she wasn’t. What do you think happens next?

My family had a saying: blood for blood. My mother had ordered Rory to keep his hands off the outsiders. She hadn’t been interested in the trouble that the wrath of a billionaire could bring to a town like this and an operation like hers. But if Jackson was right, if a Rooney was dead—if Kaylie wasn’t dancing, wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t laughing; if my sister wasn’t anything anymore; if Kaylie was dead—all bets were off. The person responsible wouldn’t be safe in a local hospital. He wouldn’t be safe with local cops. My family ran the drug trade and the weapons trade, all up and down this stretch of coast. They owned the cops.

Blood for blood.

If my sister was dead, and one of the people responsible was alive, he wouldn’t be for long.