He blows out a hard breath. “Wow, I don’t know. On one hand, I’ve known him awhile. On the other hand, I am the last person to ask, because when it comes to Adrian Summers, I do not have any goodwill. I fantasize about building one of those pagan wicker-type effigies out of his rowing boats and oars, a la Burning Man, and setting it ablaze with him inside it, begging for his life.”

He’s joking. I think.

“If you end up in actual jail, I will never forgive you, Lucky Karras,” I warn him.

“Just a harmless fantasy,” he says, holding up both hands innocently. “And as far as what to do about Evie … I honestly don’t know. She’s nineteen. In college. An adult. And I don’t know if Adrian is seriously dangerous, or just an entitled asshole who makes terrible decisions when he drinks too much.”

Me neither. But I’m a little weary of my family right now. Sometimes having to solve everyone else’s problems feels as if it’s a load I’m not built to carry. Like, I’m just a tiny elevator made for transporting one or two people, max—but every floor, someone’s dinging my buttons, and suddenly I’m crammed with people and now my doors won’t shut.

“Maybe I’ll talk to her over the next couple days. Once things have stopped being weird between us.” I squint at Lucky under the porch light. “Got any plans for this weekend?”

He cracks his knuckles over his black cat tattoo. “Perhaps plans for both of us, if you’re interested. Two words—Rapture Island. Know it?”

“Afraid I do not.”

“Few miles outside of the harbor mouth. Used to be a colony, now it’s a bird sanctuary.”

“Bird sanctuary, eh? That sounds … positively riveting.”

“Now, hold on. I wasn’t finished.”

“Is there golfing, too? Because bird watching and golfing are the two things I definitely do not want to do with my weekend. Top two things.”

He holds up a finger. “First, birds are cool, so screw you.”

I laugh. “Wow. Didn’t know you were such a bird-o-phile.”

“Or maybe even ornithophile.”

“Potato, tomato.”

He ignores that. “And second, the island is only accessible by boat, and I’m not sure if anyone lives out there besides the lighthouse keeper and a handful of scientists during certain times of the year, but it’s got”—he leans closer and says in a spooky voice—“the ruins of an entire colonial ghost town.”

“Okay, sounding better and better. I didn’t know we had a colonial ghost town.”

“Ha! Taught you something new,” he says, smiling at me with tired eyes.

“Look, I just learned that there are now two clam shacks in our neighborhood, not one.”

“Manny’s and Clam No. 5. Manny’s is still better.”