For one choking second, I see her clear as day, just as she was on the night of our prom, standing in front of me in a green satin dress clinging to curves I had no business noticing, golden-brown eyes snapping with hate fire, her skin dusky with anger.

Even at seventeen, I appreciated that she was stunning in her rage. I was struck dumb, not able to say a word as she tore me to shreds with hers.

The last thing she said to me was that I was worthless, and she hated me. She clearly meant it with every fiber of her being.

I lick my dry lips. “She’s Sam’s sister.”

North’s brows kick up. “Samantha has a sister?” He sounds vaguely horrified.

“Don’t worry. They are nothing alike.” I roll my tight shoulders, and the pain feels almost good. “Delilah is . . .” Hell, even now my teenage self collides with my current self, both of us struggling to find a way to explain her. “Forthright.”

North looks at me as if I’m nuts. I feel nuts.

Shrugging, I try again. “What you see is what you get with Delilah. She gives it to you straight.” No matter how deep it cuts. “She doesn’t care if you’re impressed with her or not.”

“Sounds like you know her well.”

Do I know Delilah? Yeah, I do, though she’d hate that. And she knows me. A weird twist goes through my chest—part excitement, part revulsion—as if I’m being unwillingly stripped bare and am not sure whether I like it or not.

“We grew up together. Sam, Delilah, and me.”

The three fucked-up musketeers. Because even though Sam and I were shits and tried to exclude Delilah, she was always part of the equation. Always.

“Does Delilah know where Sam is?”

“She says she doesn’t.” Shit, my neck is tight. I lift my arm to squeeze it, and my ribs scream in protest.

North’s eyes narrow. He knows I’m in pain but thankfully doesn’t point it out. “You just said Delilah was a straight shooter. So you believe her?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.” I stare out at the sea once more. Everything is on its head now. “And if Delilah can’t find her, no one can.” Which means my mother’s watch is truly gone. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sam has already pawned it.

The rage grows so thick it chokes me. Sam has taken one too many things from me—my memories, my freaking safety—and I’m past forgiveness. I need to call the police. I need to hunt down the watch, not think about a certain sassy woman with a honey-and-arsenic voice.

Delilah.

Her name swirls in my mind without warning, pushing its way in and settling there. She’s coming here—with or without Sam. My money is on her showing up alone. Whether she wants to admit it or not, Delilah knows as well as I do that when Sam makes an escape, nothing is going to bring her back until she is good and ready.