He’d been a smelly, weaselly-eyed fat kid with bad skin and crooked teeth who’d tried unsuccessfully to worm his way into their group of summer kids each year. But the only islander they’d let in was Star. Mike was too loud, too uncool. Everything about him was wrong—his clothes, his snorty laugh, his unfunny jokes. The only one who’d tolerated him had been David.

“I feel sorry for the kid,” David had said after one of her brothers had insulted Mike. “His parents are both drunks. He’s got a lot of problems.”

“We all have problems,” Star had said. “You’re only sticking up for him because you’re kind of an outcast, too.”

Had he been? Bree didn’t remember it that way. From the beginning, David had fascinated them. He was charming, charismatic, good-looking. Raised in poverty in Gary, Indiana, he was attending the University of Michigan on a full scholarship. At twenty, he was the same age as her oldest brother, but David was more worldly. Although she couldn’t remember any of them saying it out loud, they all thought it was cool to hang out with a black kid. Beyond that, there wasn’t one of them who didn’t believe David was destined for great things.

Mike gestured toward her cigarette. “Those coffin nails’ll kill you. You should give that up.”

He was still uncool, but in a different way. The crooked teeth, acne, and extra pounds might be long gone, but he still tried too hard. The scraggly, dirty blond hair of his teenage years had been tamed by an expensive cut, then overtreated with grooming products. His cheap summer wardrobe of ill-fitting shorts and T-shirts had given way to white slacks, a high-end polo shirt, and a belt with a Prada logo, all of it too ostentatious for casual island living, although not as objectionable as his heavy gold-link bracelet and college class ring.

Her cigarette burned close to her fingers. “What’s this about?”

“Toby’s run into some trouble with the new folks next door.”

She tapped the bottom of the filter with her thumb and said nothing.

He jingled the coins in his pocket. “No one seems to have told the new owner that Myra passed, so he thinks she’s still taking care of the place. But turns out Toby’s been doing the job ever since Myra got sick. I didn’t know about it till just now, or I’d have put a stop to it.”

The cigarette burned her fingers. She dropped it and stubbed out the butt with the toe of her sandal. A twelve-year-old trying to do an adult’s job. She should have paid more attention to his disappearances. Something else to make her feel incompetent. “I’ll talk to him.”

She turned away to go into the house.