Griffin seemed to take it all in stride, though. He stuck to himself and his big, dilapidated farmhouse on the far side of the island. He only ventured into town with a purpose, never to sit and eat at a café or grab a beer with other locals. He was in and out, leaving only questions and whispers in his wake.

“Sandwich ready?”

The rough voice made us all jump. I was sure my face was the shade of the tomato I was about to slice. “Um, I’m, uh, just deciding what I should put on it. We got some really nice Roma tomatoes in, and the spinach is super fresh. Maybe I’ll do a tomato mozzarella deal with some balsamic and prosciutto.” My mouth kept right on spewing nonsense while Kenna and Bell struggled to hold back their laughter.

“It’ll be up in just a second,” I hurried to put an end to my runaway mouth disease. Right after I locked myself in the walk-in fridge and never came out.

2

Griffin

I heaved another pile of who knew what out the window and into the dumpster below. When I first returned to the farmhouse, I’d been a hell of a lot more meticulous as I went through each room. Now, if it looked like garbage, out it went.

The pile of detritus landed with a satisfying thunk. I turned back to survey the room, a muscle ticking in my jaw. The rose wallpaper my sister had loved so much was yellowed and peeling after years of age and the time it had been exposed to the elements. But that’s what happened when you left a home vacant for over a decade. Kids threw rocks at windows. People broke in and stole everything of value. They vandalized for the hell of it.

My stomach turned as I took in the graffiti on the wall—ugly words cutting across the roses my little sister had considered her private garden. I’d been back on the island for a few years now, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.

Sheriff Raines had been the one to finally get in touch to tell me that my family’s refuge was being destroyed. It was no easy task getting through to me. I’d made an art of running, and another of hiding. Raines had tracked me through lawyers and shell corporations until he finally found a cell phone number that only three people had.

I’d seen his call as a sign: time to return home and restore the home I’d once seen as a palace and had ruled as a prince. We’d called it the farmhouse, our family getaway from the hectic craziness of our normal lives. It sat on ten acres of pristine land on the far end of the island, away from curious eyes.