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I quickly make my way past the children splashing in the shallow water of the lagoon and the men fishing farther along the shore. The sand burns my soles when I cut across the beach to the bridge.
Among the holidaymakers in their swimming trunks and bikinis, a man with a suit will attract attention. I dare a glance over my shoulder again and spot Roch walking over the scorching hot sand with his jacket slung over his shoulder, appearing to have no worries in the world. He looks like one of those holiday commercials with the French guy strolling in a tux, trouser legs rolled up, on a beach in Saint-Tropez.
Breaking into a run, I cross the island via both bridges and turn right onto the road that goes up the hill. I’m sweating and sticky from the sea and the sand when I finally arrive home. I burst through the gate, but I don’t feel safe on the other side of it. Even slamming and locking it doesn’t make me feel better.
“Everything okay?” Doris asks, coming out onto the porch.
“Yes,” I say, trying to sound normal as I reach her. “The tar is hot. I forgot to take flipflops.”
She clicks her tongue. “You shouldn’t be so careless.”
I push past her into the house and sprint up the stairs. After showering, I grab a snack and close myself in my room. When I’ve eaten, I download the video on my laptop and watch it several times, unable to get over the exhilarating experience.
I’m itching to share it with my family, but Mom will freak out and Dad will ground me from swimming. They don’t understand sharks like I do. They just think danger instead of beauty when anyone mentions the word. Besides, if they know how far I went out into the sea today, I’ll probably be grounded for life.
Pirate is stretched out on my unmade bed. I lie down next to him, drifting into a fitful nap, and when I wake up, the room is basked in a gloomy light.
The hour hand on the clock on my dresser stands on six. The room is stuffy and hot. I forgot to close the blinds and switch on the AC.
I get up and open the balcony doors to let the breeze in. Pirate jumps from the bed and rubs against my leg. Something squeezes in my chest when I crouch down to pet him. I can’t look at him and not think of Angelo, and I can’t think of Angelo and not hurt.
A knock on my door startles me from my thoughts.
My mom opens the door and sticks her head around the doorframe. “You’re awake.” Her smile is stilted. “Colin is here. Can he come in?”
“Oh.” I straighten. “Sure.”
Colin enters with his backpack slung over his shoulder, carrying a six-pack of ginger ale and a bag of gummy bears. “What’s up, Bella? I took notes for you in class. I brought the exercises we did so you can catch up.” He offers me the snacks. “These are for your period. Ginger and sugar always help.”
My mom clears her throat. “I’ll leave you to work. Would you like something to drink, Colin?”
“I’m good, thanks, Mrs. Edwards.”
She closes the door and leaves.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Do you want me to prepare you a hot water bottle? It always works for Clara.”
“No.” I flop down on the bed. “But thanks.”
“You look like death warmed up. Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”
Pulling my knees up to my chin, I shake my head.
“Hey.” He drops his bag on the floor and sits down next to me. “What’s going on? Did something happen? It’s not Celeste or the baby, is it? I saw Ryan leaving your house late last night.”
“No,” I say again. “Celeste and the baby are fine. I mean, Celeste is due any day now, but that’s not why Ryan came.”
“Why did he come?” He studies me. “He’s so seldom here, I was worried something may be wrong.”
“Something is wrong.” I cover my face with my hands. “Oh, Colin.”
“Bella.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Talk to me. You can tell me.”
Yes, I can. I trust him, so I tell him the story, omitting the part about the bribes. I only say that Angelo took sensitive information concerning my dad’s business.
He stares at me when I’m done, his mouth agape. “He stole information? To do what with?”
I cringe when I say, “Industrial espionage.” That’s what stealing incriminating evidence to blackmail someone into signing over shares is, isn’t it? Well, in a way.
Colin takes a can from the six-pack, cracks it open, and offers it to me. When I shake my head, he kicks off his shoes, shifts to the wall, and sits crossed-legged with his back resting against the headboard.
