I scoured the entire dance floor, the packed living room area, the bar. I pushed my way outside, where the people seemed much more chill about the power outage. I heard rumors of someone named Tony checking out the breaker to see what had happened. The lights should be on soon, the consensus outside seemed to be. The party would go back to full swing.

I sank onto a lounge chair in a shadowy corner and studied each face, each voice on the deck. No Luna. No Peter.

Frustrated, I pulled out my phone and checked for word from Chris. Still nothing. I shouldn’t have checked—now my nerves were out of control, the slate sliding over me, dampening the fire colors.

I got up and went back inside, taking everything more slowly this time, staying on the fringe of the crowd but paying close attention to each person. I continued to search in a second living room next door, where people were quivering on couches like this was the Titanic and the whole damn thing was going down. Beyond that, I passed through a less formal bar area—nearly empty, save for an entwined couple making full use of the dark—and into a quiet hallway.

More cabins. I hadn’t had the chance to explore these earlier because of the housekeeper. A quick look in the first one told me it belonged to Peter Fairchild. Men’s shoes lined the floor at the end of the bed. A jacket hung from the closet door. Colognes and aftershaves were scattered atop the dressing table. I took a quick tour of the room, looking for anything that might help me bust him, but of course I found nothing.

I peeked in another room; it was empty.

But there was a third room at the end of the hallway, and I heard voices coming from it. I edged along the wall and positioned myself just outside the door, near a hallway bathroom, so I could see inside.

A man and a girl. The girl crying, the man bent over her, gently murmuring, consoling her. Even from the back, I could tell it was Peter Fairchild, his white-blond hair nearly glowing in the dark. My skin crawled and I felt a tingle go up my spine. Finally, I had found him.

He shifted position, and I could see the brown wavy hair of Celeste Day peeking out from the side. But there was something off about her. She was shorter than she’d originally appeared at Pear Magic. And there was something about her cry. Something familiar. I inched closer so I could hear them.

“This was supposed to be my big night,” she whimpered. She blotted her eyelashes—carefully, carefully, just the lashes—with a tissue.

“And it still will be,” Peter assured her.