Up here, I couldn’t hear the water lapping against the sides of the ship or the hum of the refrigerator or the soft rumble of the kitchen appliances or the birds outside. I definitely couldn’t hear the men talking anymore. All I could hear was my own breathing, and the soft shush of my shoes on the carpet as I walked warily down the hall. Cabin after cabin opened up on either side of me—six of them in total, their beds identically made in melon and turquoise linens. Guest beds.

I ducked into a stateroom and opened a closet. Other than a life vest, it was empty. Which meant lots of room to hang out, but nothing to hide behind. I assumed every cabin would be identical in that way, so when I came across another stairway at the ship’s stern, I headed up.

The top deck was obviously just for the sun goddesses. Luna probably avoided this deck like the plague, given the fair skin that she was so proud of. Deck chairs were lined up like soldiers. I felt high above the water, the breeze whipping salt into my hair. Just me and the sun.

I sat on a lounge and closed my eyes, taking the tiniest moment to soak it in.

This was Luna’s life. This was what it was like to grow up part of the Hollis clan. This had been Peyton’s normal. This had been what Dru was accustomed to. Could it ever feel ordinary to me? Probably not. Ordinary had nothing to do with this life. Come to think of it, ordinary had nothing to do with my life, either.

I was so not a Hollis it wasn’t even funny.

Maybe that had been the message Dad had been trying to send me this whole time. Maybe he hid things from me to protect me. Even if he’d had something to do with Mom’s murder. Even if she was dead because of him. Maybe he was trying to spare me the same fate.

Or maybe he was persona non grata to Bill Hollis, and you just didn’t get to be Hollywood elite if someone like Bill Hollis wanted you locked out.

I had to stay on this yacht until the party. I had to confront Peter Fairchild. I had to find Luna.

I got up and jogged one deck down, passing all the staterooms swiftly, my focus sharpening on possible hiding places. Closets—not the best. Beneath the dining room table—surely the housekeeper would be up there at some point, polishing silver or whatever she did to prepare for parties. Behind the upper-deck bar—that would be opening at some point this evening, I was sure of it.

Then I saw it. A tiny door flush with the wood under the grand staircase that went from lower deck to top deck. A perfect place to hide.