Chapter 6

Toby Hawthorne passed out again before I dressed his burns, before I sheared a patch of hair on the back of his head to his scalp and bandaged his wound, before I got the IV going.

We’re going to need more supplies. I didn’t say that to Jackson, in large part because I told myself that there was no we. I’d done what I could. I’d done no harm. And that was more than I could say for the patient I’d treated.

Kerosene.

I stood and walked slowly out of the shack. It was only once I’d opened the door that Jackson spoke behind me. “You coming back?”

I didn’t turn around as I issued a response that sounded calmer than I felt. “When the saline bag runs out, sub the second one in. You’ll want to change his dressing frequently—cool water, not cold. Burn meds would help—silver cream, if you can get it.”

In other words: No, I’m not coming back.

But in a strange way, I also didn’t want to leave, because once I left, there would be nothing stopping me from making my way back to town, from finding out if Jackson had been right, if Kaylie really had been on Hawthorne Island, if she really was gone.

I didn’t want to know, and that meant, on some level, that I already did.

Kaylie and I had always had a sixth sense for each other.

There wasn’t a single car parked outside my mother’s house. As I walked up the drive, a veritable pack of dogs threw themselves at the adjacent chain-link fence. Most were pit bulls crossbred with something larger. A final dog was leashed to a post on the front porch.

None of them had names. They weren’t pets. As I approached, the dog on the porch pulled to the end of his chain, ratcheting up the warning growls. I knelt to his level, just out of range of his jaws, never blinking, and stared back at him.

“You know me,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure he did.

The dog went still. I’d always had a way with animals, and this time, as I stood back up, I didn’t even have to work to keep my fear—and every other emotion—at bay. I felt numb as I made my way across the porch and closed my hand around the front door.

It wasn’t locked. It never was.

I found my father in the kitchen. The rest of the house was silent. He stood over the stove, but there was nothing on it.

“She thought you’d come when you heard,” he said without turning around.

My father’s voice was lower in pitch than my mother’s but less gravelly. I could remember moments in my childhood when he’d sung and she’d danced. The family business didn’t mean there was no family here. It meant that family was everything—or else.

I didn’t ask where my mother and her troops were. I just breathed in and out and replied to my father’s statement. “Heard what?” I said, willing him to tell me, willing it not to be true.

My father turned around. “You knew your sister was running around with those boys,” he accused. I didn’t see the backhand coming, and it was only by the grace of God that it didn’t knock me to the floor. “Did you know what those rich little bastards were playing at, Hannah?”

In my entire life, he’d never hit me. He’d been an enforcer for the family once, but when my mother had taken over, she’d made it clear that she found his brain more useful. He knew too much to be put into the line of fire these days, so his was a steadier presence, a calmer one.

I lifted a hand to my cheek. I couldn’t summon up an ounce of anger or even hurt. Part of me was glad that he’d lashed out, because that meant that he’d cared. About Kaylie.

“I didn’t know anything,” I said, my voice breaking.

Suddenly, my father pulled me to him. His arms enveloped my body. He held me, the way I couldn’t ever remember him holding me before.

“I should have kept a closer eye on her,” my father said into my hair. “Those boys were running their mouths off all over town. They bought accelerant—and lots of it.” His voice hardened. “Just a little game of arson.”

A little game of arson. I thought about Toby Hawthorne on the floor of Jackson’s shack. A game. My sister was dead for a rich boy’s game.

“Are you sure—” I started to say.

“Hannah.” My father put a hand under my chin. “She’s ashes now.” He blinked rapidly and gathered himself. “Your sister is dead, and they’ll pin this on her. You just wait and see.”

“Arson,” I realized. That was one of the charges Kaylie had been convicted of in juvenile court. She’d set the fire in question at my mother’s command, a warning of money owed.

My mother. “Where is she?” I asked, my own voice hardening. My father knew based on my tone that I wasn’t talking about whatever remained of my sister. I was talking about the head of the Rooney family. “Where is she?”

My mother sure as hell wasn’t here, mourning, and something told me she wasn’t out on Hawthorne Island, frantically demanding the truth, either. It had been clear the night before: She had something planned for today.

My father’s arms dropped to his sides. “You a part of this family now?”

I looked away. “No.”

After a long moment, he pressed a kiss to my forehead, then pulled back. “That’s what I thought.” I knew a good-bye when I heard one. He’d loved Kaylie. Maybe he even loved me, but it wasn’t enough.

I let myself out.

I ended up on the shore, where the ocean crashed into the rocks, sending an explosion of sea spray into the air. The sky was no longer storm black. The haze over the ocean could almost have passed for fog, but I knew it for what it was. Smoke. I couldn’t make out even the faintest outline of Hawthorne Island.

A little game of arson. I blinked into the wind, and the next thing I knew, I was in the ocean, up to my ankles, then my calves. It was only when the water hit my knees that I stopped.

My sister was out there. Dead or alive—and I knew at that point that she wasn’t alive, I knew, but I couldn’t keep from hedging my thoughts—I needed to get to her.

Even if she was ashes.

It was too far to swim, and I wasn’t far enough gone to try, so I went back to the bar instead. I opened the door, and almost immediately, the entire place fell silent. For better or worse, I wasn’t invisible now.

I was a Rooney of Rockaway Watch, and one of my family’s own was dead.

“Someone is going to take me out there,” I said.

All eyes were on me. I didn’t repeat myself. I just waited for one of the men at the bar to stand.

The boat didn’t get within a hundred yards of Hawthorne Island before the Coast Guard turned us back. The island was still burning—here and there, scattered flames. The rain or the Guard must have taken care of the rest.

As I stared at the charred remains of what had once been a grand mansion, the Coast Guard’s voice blared over the radio once more. “Turn back,” it reiterated. “There are no survivors. I repeat, no survivors.”