But the bigger change had come in the form of the Bell girls.

From the beginning of June until the end of August, the Bell family took up residence in the mansion on the north cliffs, which they let stand empty the rest of the year. During that time, they hosted an artist colony, and St. Lucy’s was flooded with dozens of hippies who had perpetual paint smears on their hands, flowers in their hair, and a loose grasp of appropriate public behavior.

Mia, Asher, and Cash had never paid them much attention while growing up. They existed as part of the landscape, to be ridiculed, yes, but mostly to be ignored.

That year, though, the Bells had brought their two teenage daughters with them. Lacey and Monroe.

The girls had shown up, all glossy black hair and blue eyes and curves in the places that they were supposed to be. The older one, Monroe, had caught Asher’s eye, and so, more often than not, the sisters would tag along, and their trio expanded to five.

They’d spent their days at the lighthouse, sunning on the black rocks at its base, and their nights passing joints and bottles, and once, just once, some heavier drugs the girls had swiped out of one of the artist’s rooms.

They weren’t inseparable. Sometimes it would just be Mia and Cash who’d crept out past curfew, and on those nights they’d bring blankets and curl up in the lookout tower, their limbs tangling, lips seeking each other’s—unpracticed, yet eager.

But most of the time it had been all of them, killing days that had felt like they’d last forever. Seconds, minutes, hours, they’d moved differently then, when all she’d been able to think about was getting off the island that too often seemed like a cage.

In the picture on Mama’s wall, Asher was laughing just as Mia and Cash were, but he wasn’t looking at the person behind the camera, and he wasn’t looking at the two of them, either.

Instead, his gaze was somewhat off to the left. Mia didn’t remember the actual day the photo was taken; it was more a snapshot of a moment in time than an actual memory. But she guessed Asher must have been looking at Monroe, with Lacey behind the lens.

Izzy sniffed, overloud in the quiet house, and Mia was no longer in that rose gold–tinted summer before everything went to hell. Instead, she was frozen in the hallway, her pulse thrumming far too fast for just standing still, with her partner watching her, concern cutting a deep line between her eyebrows.

“Sorry.” Mia cleared her throat, making sure not to look back at the photo.

“Your friends?” Izzy asked as they started walking again, their socks muffling their footsteps against the hardwood.

“Used to be,” Mia said right before they stepped into the kitchen.