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Kit plastered her back against the screen, her gratitude for the cover of darkness at war with the sharp sting of the affront smarting through her. Sure, even she had to admit the grounds of her family home had become an overgrown, weathered wreck. But what lay inside Teague Cottage, or rather who . . .
She rolled her head to the side, able to see Viv clearly just as she’d been twenty-one years ago—a long-legged seventeen-year-old girl with an easy grin and a sarcastic sense of humor. They’d been sitting on the same step Kit sat on now, having snuck one of their mother’s cigarettes after they’d managed to get her safely into bed on the heels of a particularly painful psychotic episode.
Kit had taken only one drag and Viv had been in the middle of her second when Ty Nelson had strolled by. A scraggly man in his midtwenties who lived a stone’s throw down the road and peddled dime bags on the side, he’d paused to smile in their direction.
“That’s a good-looking mouth you got on you, Viv,” Ty had said. “You girls as wild and friendly as your mama?”
Kit’s face had flamed, the blistering profanity-laden insults that Viv had hurled at Ty making her cringe as much as Ty’s lewd remarks.
“What does he know?” Out of breath, Viv had bumped Kit’s shoulder with her own and made a rude gesture toward Ty’s retreating back. “Boneheaded pervert is just as heartless as the rest of them. But we, dear sis”—she’d looked at Kit’s face, then hugged her tight—“are above them all. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
Kit rubbed her arms, the memory of Viv’s protective embrace almost palpable. Viv’s hugs had always been so different from her mother’s: Solid and strong. Sober.
She’d missed those hugs so much over the years. She’d missed what might’ve been. And maybe . . . maybe things would have been different if she’d stayed. Maybe her mother would’ve changed her mind? Maybe . . .
No. That was the root of the problem. For years, Vivhadbeen here.
The string of golf carts passed, then faded to small red taillights in the distance until the darkness swallowed them up and the air grew still again, the pulse of wildlife reviving, each chirp and cry growing louder and louder.
Kit was alone again. She stared at the trees’ shadows cast by starlight along the dirt road that led to the Sutton property, until the shadows blurred and her eyes burned.
Viv wasn’t going to show tonight. Kit doubted Beau had even been able to find her—fact was, she didn’t blame him if he’d decided not to try after her humiliating attack on his property earlier this evening.
Oh, Lord. Kit dropped her face into her hands. She’d lost all control and made a complete fool of herself—not just in front of Beau, but in front of his son and father, too. She’d accused Beau—a widower now?—of terrible things. Insulted his father and chastised his son. She’d never behaved more erratically in her life.
That intense scrutiny in Beau’s eyes when he’d looked down at her . . . the thin lines fanning out from his eyes as he’d frowned. The cautious expression on his handsome face as he’d approached her . . . What must he think of her?
She lifted her head, and her gaze narrowed on the empty road. Exactly what everyone else on this island had always thought: The Teague girls were crazy—as wild and crazy as their mother. Nothing but trash.
Kit rubbed her eyes, shoved to her feet, then worked her way through thick weeds and grass to the back deck, climbed the stairs, and moved quietly along the wraparound porch to each window she could reach. The window to hers and Viv’s childhood bedroom was shut tight and wouldn’t budge; Mackey’s window was locked, as well. She ventured to the opposite side of the porch and found Royal’s bedroom window to be a no-go, but the battered screen hanging by one nail on the kitchen window fell off with one tug and—even better—the inner window was cracked open just enough for her fingertips to fit.
She yanked the window upward, sliding it open with a whoosh, gripped the windowsill, and heaved her upper body through the opening. A pocket on her suit jacket snagged on a nail, halting her progress. She wriggled her way out of it—bumping her forehead once on the windowsill and twice on the faucet of the kitchen sink directly below her—then kicked off her shoes and forced her hips through the aperture.
A gasp sounded as her body spilled over the sink and countertop, her limbs fumbling awkwardly for a secure grip, knocking dirty pots, bowls, and spoons to the floor in a crashing heap.
Hands and knees hitting the linoleum floor, Kit winced and looked up.
Mackey, clad in blue pajamas, stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand pressing against his open mouth and wide eyes staring at her. “You . . .” He pointed at the open window, then the pots and bowls—some broken—that littered the floor. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
Kit squeezed her eyes shut and pushed off the floor, flinching as muscles she didn’t know she had cramped. “I know.” She focused on Mackey’s shocked face and gestured weakly toward the cluttered floor. “Sorry about that. I’ll clean it up.”
Mackey shook his head. “You don’t live here no more.” His attention darted from the open window to the mess on the floor, then to Kit’s disheveled form, the wheels turning ninety miles a minute. “You broke in. You’re a burglar.”
Kit shoved her hair off her face and rubbed an ache in the back of her neck. “I’m not a burglar. I’m your sister.”
“But you didn’t come in through the door. You came in the window.”
“Because my key didn’t work.”
“Because you don’t live here no more.”
“Because Viv,” she stressed, “changed the locks to get back at me.”
“Because you don’t live here no more.”
Kit sighed. Returned his stare.
“You broke in. You’re a burglar.” Mackey walked across the kitchen and picked up a cordless phone from the counter. “I have to call the cops.”
