My pulse stutters at the antagonism in Beau’s tone. I have to get him out of here before there’s a fistfight and Winter Park has one more reason to believe he’s a violent killer.
“I’m not delusional, Beau.” Simon’s tone is so light, Shep chuckles. “But when someone guts your company with a massive security breach and runs off with your chief of staff, you tend to take notice.”
“You fired me on anote card,” I sneer, unable to hold back.
And now both of the Walkers are coming unglued.
“A gross misjudgment on my part.” Simon touches his heart, playing at gentlemanly. “One for which I apologized when we met at my hotel.”
Beau’s nostrils flare at the mention of this.
“It doesn’t change the fact that—” I start. But I stop myself, realizing I’m falling into another one of his well-laid deceptions.
Judging from the careful smiles plastered on everyone’s faces, they’re missing it, too. They’re all looking at me like I’m being unreasonable. Like I should really hear Simon out. Not Beau, though. His eyes darken, like I’ve wounded him.
“What do you know about why Gemma was in Winter Park, Simon?” I press.
Simon was after Gemma. For what? Details about Beau andme?
“You sent her here,” I accuse, hardly believing the words as I’m saying them.
Gemma was also a notorious gossip, literally profiting off herpatrons. Why would she come here for Simon? She was my friend.
But there was a time when I trusted Simon, too.
“You give me too much credit.” Simon chuckles. “Gemma never did need an invitation to insert herself.”
My palms are clammy as the heat rises in my cheeks. Shirking accountability is an area Simon always did excel in. He slides out from under the weight of an accusation like it was never meant for him. And worse, he makes the accuser sound unhinged for voicing a complaint.
I can feel the eyes under the pergola flick to me, then away again, like maybe I’m the problem. Like I’ve pushed things too far.
All these years of lazy summer days have dulled my instincts.
White-hot rage moves through me in an instant. I’m one breath away from settling this the old-fashioned way—charging at him with my fists flying—but Beau’s already got a hand on my waist, and he’s hauling me toward our yard.
“We’re leaving,” he says firmly.
“Beau—” I start, vibrating with fury.
“I know,” he says. “But not like this.”
That’s when Polly barrels out the back door, a cookie platter gripped in both hands.
“Uncle Simon, I made cookies.” She looks at me, enthusiasm lighting her eyes. “He’s staying with us tonight, because his hotel is full.”
“Lucky you,” I say, relaxing my posture so she doesn’t suspect there’s an argument under way. She shouldn’t have to hear that her “uncle” is a narcissistic megalomaniac until she’s at least a teenager. So I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Beau’s grip on my waist has barely loosened. He’s poised to pull me out of here at a moment’s notice.
Simon takes a cookie, winking at Polly. “Apparently platinum status doesn’t mean much when the whole coast is fleeing inland.”
“Este and I are headed home,” Beau says, pulling at my waist again.
Before anyone can say good night, though, Detective Travis Ardell cuts across the lawn, as rain begins to spit down. He’s waving us in with the practiced impatience of a lifeguard finishing his shift.
“The storm’s moving fast,” he calls, swinging his arms as he lopes across the yard. “You all need to be inside, hunkered down. Now. Once the winds pick up, it’s going to slow down our ability to safely reach residents in need.”
Chairs scrape, Shep clears his throat, and Tippy and Carol look relieved to finally have something to do with their hands after the Beau–Este–Simon standoff. The three of us stay rooted while everyone else hurries to gather the dishes outside, shuttling them through the hurricane-impact doors of Ford’s house. Ms. Dowling comes out to help, squinting as the rain lands on her face and hair. The homes here are built to withstand weather like this, but as the crowd disperses, every one of them glances skyward, wary of the storm bands closing in.
We break apart toward our respective homes like schoolchildren filing inside after recess. Beau leads the way back to our house, but I watch Simon, unwilling to turn my back on him before he’s a safe distance away, closed inside Ford’s living room. Even then, it feels irresponsible to take my eyes off him.
