Prologue
The Morning After the Hurricane
The thud of my heartbeat roars in the space between my temples. It’s so loud the soles of my feet throb. So loud, I can barely hear the ringtone of the outgoing call.
“911,” the operator answers. “What’s your emergency?”
I fight to steady my breath, knowing every word will be recorded and dissected as evidence later.
My name is Este Walker. I live on Isle of Sicily Road…
I blink, struggling to speak the words I’ve rehearsed—words Ineedto say. But my mouth won’t work.
I take in the scene—the debris littering the lawn, the pool water thick with branches and leaves—and the sinister figure outlined in front of me. The wind and rain of last night’s hurricane did what late-summer hurricanes do, snapping branches and tossing furniture, churning dirt and water into a thick film that covers everything in view.
There’s a casual cruelty to the wildness of Florida. No matter how pretty the façade, this place has a way of cutting you back down to size. You think you’re in paradise until it shows its teeth.
People have come to expect the volatility. Residents take storm damage on the chin, tidying the detritus and getting on with their lives. It’s the price we all pay for an endless summer—knowing the wild undercurrent of Florida can unmake you on a whim with all of its heat and its hurricanes and alligators.
My neighbors have probably already begun the work of restoring order to their homes, gathering broken branches into neat little piles, rinsing their pool decks clean. Reestablishing the polished façade of Winter Park.
But there’s no putting things right for me. Not now. Maybe not ever again. The thought presses down on my shoulders, heavy and unrelenting until I almost can’t breathe.
I catch the sickening glint of a Buffalo Nickel coin on a broken chain near the deep end of the pool. And then the operator sighs.
“What’s your emergency?” she repeats impatiently.
“My name is Este Walker. I live on Isle of Sicily Road.” I take a breath and squeeze my eyes closed, thinking of the fog of war—how people make reckless mistakes in the heat of battle.
There’s no time for confusion. You can’t afford to make a mistake right now.
“Ma’am?” the operator says. “Do you need help?”
I clear my throat and force myself to focus.
“Send the police. I…” My voice sounds hoarse and foreign. “There’s a body in my swimming pool.”
Chapter 1
Fourteen Days Before the Hurricane
When the first call comes, I don’t hear it. Not because I’m ignoring it. That part will come later.
But that first time, I’m in my closet. It’s a room so large it could hold two of my first apartments, stacked together. A room anchored at its center by an island. An honest-to-God, custom-crafted, professionally organized island. Sunlight streams through an arched window at the front of the room, and the lake beyond throws glints back. Because I live in the middle of anArchitectural Digestspread now.
I know. Such an unlikable thing to say, but it’s true.
I’m standing in the middle of my dream life, and my phone is somewhere on the well-appointed closet island, buried under a discarded silk dress. The ring is a muffled hum so low I almost mistake it for the bass line of my husband’s funk-heavy festival playlist—a playlist currently bleeding through every wall of saidArchitectural Digestspread.
Every day is like this in our house—our little bubble. The music playing, the sunset spilling over our lakefront view, and Beau charming me like it’s some kind of life mission.
But I’m so distracted I barely remember putting on the dress I’m wearing.
I’ve been like this all day. I’m fixated on a plan. A scheme, really. One that involves my best friend, Nora Somerset, and the man who’s been pining for her since the day they met.
Nora’s been widowed for a year now, and although neither one of them will say it, when no one’s looking, Marcus Campbell and Nora exchange starry-eyed gazes.
Tonight, he’s hosting an anniversary party for his restaurant, Lemon & Fig. And I have decided it won’t bejusta party. It will be the beginning of something.
