THE AIR WAS DAMP WITH THE KIND OF COLD meatiness that signaled the approach of another storm. Wind whipped at Meg’s hair, loosening strands from her ponytail. She tucked a few of them behind her ear as her eyes adjusted to the dusk.
Dull lights glowed in the distance across the bay. Roche Harbor, on the back side of San Juan Island. It looked closer than she’d imagined, and it was comforting to know that a decently populated town was just across the bay.
Meg shook her head. Why was she so skittish? She needed to loosen up. Secret house party hosted by the most popular girl in school? People would kill for an invite. So what if her parents didn’t know where she was? That was the fun of it, right?
Minnie stood beside the scruffy-faced deckhand, staring down the side of the ferry as it bobbed up and down in the water.
“We have to climb down?” she asked.
“Sorry, miss. Weather’s too rough,” he said. “Gotta use the ladder.”
Minnie glanced at her wholly inappropriate kitten-heel slingbacks. “But …”
“Just take them off,” Meg said, trying to keep the “I told you so” tone out of her voice.
“Don’t worry, miss.” The deckhand nodded down to his mate on the dock. “Branson’ll catch you if you fall.”
Minnie leaned over the rail and looked down at Branson, the portly, middle-aged crewman. Her eyes grew wide and she turned to Meg. “How—”
“You’ll be fine,” Meg said. “I promise.” It was what Minnie needed to hear, even if it wasn’t true.
Minnie sighed and slid out of her heels, leaving them on the deck, and purposefully climbed over the side of the boat. “Okay. If you promise.”
Meg shook her head as Minnie disappeared over the side, then picked up the discarded heels and shoved them in her backpack. This was why she was going away to college. She needed, for once in her life, to put herself first.
Meg watched the deckhand nonchalantly toss their luggage overboard with the kind of disinterested yet fluid motion that signaled a well-known routine. Branson caught each bag with the same easy flow, depositing it on the dock and swinging around just in time to catch the next one. There was something simultaneously cool and creepy about their unspoken luggage dance, fascinating in its choreography and yet ever so slightly disturbing in the mindless, dronelike way in which it was executed.
“Your turn, miss,” the deckhand said, snapping Meg from her thoughts.
“Oh, right.” She swung herself onto the ladder. As she started to climb down, the boat heaved and the deckhand grabbed Meg’s arm to steady her.
“Thanks,” she said, clutching the top rung of the ladder with both hands.
“You sure you’ll be okay?” he asked. His hand still gripped her arm.
“Yeah. Short ladder. I’ll be fine.”
He cocked his head. “No, on the island.”
Meg squinted up at his worn, lined face. “Yeah, why not?”
The deckhand paused, then craned his neck to look over toward the northern part of the island. “Nothing,” he said at last.
Um, okay.
The ferry’s engines fired up again as Meg climbed down the side. “We’ll be back Monday to pick you up,” the deckhand shouted just as her feet touched the dock. “Be careful.”
Be careful? It was a weekend party full of hookups and beer bongs. Other than mono and dehydration, what did she need to be careful of?
Weirder and weirder.
As soon as Meg was clear of the ladder, Branson untied the line and, without a word, scrambled up the side of the boat.
Meg watched wistfully as he swung his body onto the pitching deck and disappeared behind the bulwark as the boat eased away from the island.
She half wished she could join them.
“Now what?” Minnie said. She stood barefoot, twirling a strand of her white-blonde hair.
Good question. Meg reluctantly pulled her attention away from the departing ferry and scanned the dock.
It was a rough, weather-beaten construction that jutted fifty yards out from the beach. Broken planks of moldering wood dotted the path to shore like little landmines, and the swells of water, even in the protected bay, seemed dangerously close to swamping the decaying pier.
Onshore, a forest of Douglas firs towered above the beach, silhouetted against the gray clouds that crowded the darkening sky. Meg thought she caught a glimpse of lights beyond the fringe of trees, but she wasn’t quite sure. She couldn’t see much in the gathering dusk, and with the moon and stars obscured by storm clouds, it was about to get extremely dark on Henry Island.
As the sound of the ferry’s engines faded into the distance, Meg felt suddenly isolated. Other than the dull rumble of water and wind, she couldn’t hear a thing, and there were no signs of life on the distant beach. Meg shivered. They were alone in the middle of nowhere, their only contact with the outside world retreating into the night.
Meg yanked her cell phone out of her jeans pocket. She desperately wanted to call someone—anyone—and tell them where they were.
“What are you doing?” Minnie asked.
Meg sheltered the screen of her phone from the ocean spray. “Nothing. Just wanted to see if we had a signal.”
“Do not call your parents.”
“I’m not!” Meg lied. Not that it mattered. She spun around, waving her phone slowly back and forth. The result was the same. “There’s no signal anyway.”
“Good!” Minnie snatched the phone out of her hand and shoved it in Meg’s backpack, retrieving her shoes in the process. She grinned and linked her arm through Meg’s. “It’s more fun this way. Like we’re stranded for three glorious days.”
Glorious was not the word that immediately sprang into Meg’s mind. “Sure, Mins. Whatever you—”
“Hello down there!”
Meg and Minnie turned sharply. Two figures appeared at the end of the dock, moving quickly toward them. Both were tall and wrapped up in heavy coats. In the muted light, Meg couldn’t see their faces, but one of them seemed oddly familiar.
“Meg!”
Meg’s stomach lurched. She knew that voice.
Minnie recognized it at the same time. She clapped her hands and squealed. “Oh my God!”
Meg felt all the warmth drain from her body.
It was T. J. Fletcher.