[ xlii. the tide takes all ]

➸➸➸

UPON LEAVING THE POINT—after threading through sagging barricades of rain-soaked caution tape and sidestepping the advance of highly invasive news reporters—Maren and Alden Deveraux refused to let their teenage daughter out of their sight.

Well, that was not exactly true.

On the ride home, at a red light, after one comment from her mother was taken too far, Willa had unlatched her seatbelt, pushed open the car door, and climbed out. She had refused to get back in. She had insisted she needed to walk—that she had to walk—or else the car, with its stifling atmosphere and its accusatory occupants, was not going to make it home in one piece. More than that, she did not want Cruz to witness the demented, emotional mess she had become. He had seen enough.

Besides—one Deveraux child had been traumatized already tonight.  There did not need to be two.

Yet before Willa could turn heel and even think about veering off toward the Chateau—the only place on the island that felt remotely safe anymore—her father made a move of his own.  Alden opened his passenger's side door and stepped out into the rain after her.  He turned to Maren.

"I'll make sure she gets home."

Maren had hesitated. Then, with no other choice, with another child still in her car, she sped off into the fading summer storm, taking Cruz with her.

The father and daughter had walked in silence after that, the rain pounding the pavement and their backs.  Alden did not crowd Willa.  He also did not attempt to console her, even as her cries began to echo again through the empty streets of Kildare.  He let her weep, her chest heaving with sobs so violent she nearly stumbled.

And still, they walked.

By the time the lights of the Deveraux mansion came into view, Willa had no tears left.  Her grief had drained her, hollowed her out, and turned her cold.  Her legs moved numbly on wobbly knees.  Her mind had become detached from the rest of her crumbled world.

John B. was dead. Sarah Cameron was dead. Two of her friends—gone in a single night.

Willa should have stopped them. She should have made them stay.

Their dying faces were an afterimage burned into her vision. Pruned and pale, their hair clinging to their wet skin, their eyes wide with terror.  Willa could still see them, drenched from overbearing waves, illuminated only by the Redfield Lighthouse's glare and the red-and-blue strobe of patrol boat sirens on their tail.  They had stared into the face of Death. It had been standing all around Willa . . . and Death had only claimed them.

How terrible it must be to truly drown.  To die in the cold, in the dark.  To feel your lungs rebel as water filled them, choking out every gasp of air.  Had John B. and Sarah felt the other's presence as they fought for breath?  Had they held onto each other as their boat flipped or had they been torn apart by the waves?  Had one known, in their final moment, that the other was already gone?

How terrible it would be to realize your better half had died before you.

The thought was monstrous.  Willa clutched her arms tighter around herself as she walked, feeling as though the storm's distant undercurrent still had the chance to rip her under, too.

Her friends were dead.

Less than four hours had passed, and already their ghosts clung to Willa.  Hickory warmth and golden blonde hair haunted her thoughts.  An orphaned boy and a father's first princess.  A valiant Pogue and a gutsy Kook.  These were the fragments of John B. and Sarah left behind for the Deveraux daughter, pieces of them she would never, could never, forget.

Willa was still far away—still at the Point, it seemed, screaming at the Kildare County Police to let them go, to let them escape, to let them live—when she shoved open the front door of her home.  It was nearly two in the morning, but the beachfront mansion blazed.  Every room had become its own beacon; as if Maren had made sure there was no excuse for her daughter to get lost.

But the Deveraux mansion did not feel familiar anymore.

Willa had walked through the front door countless times, but tonight, she did not recognize what lay beyond it.  Had it really been only a week ago that she had snuck the Pogues inside?  Now, there was no trace of them ever existing here.  There was no trace of her existing either.

The wide, foyer entryway was untouched.  The glossy checkered tiles glared back at Willa, spotless—until her soaked feet stepped onto them, leaving muddy streaks in their wake. Raindrops slid off her hair, her clothes, her hands, pooling at her ankles.  Willa did not notice. She did not look at the mess she was leaving behind or at her father, who stood just outside, dutifully wiping his shoes on the mat before stepping inside. She just kept walking deeper into the house.

Until she reached the living room and her steps faltered.

Waiting for her there were her siblings. All except four-year-old Rayne, who was likely asleep upstairs, given it was way past her bedtime. On the far edge of the cream-colored room, near the mantel below their television, Hudson stood behind the white sofa, his posture tense, his arms crossed, like he was waiting for her to speak first.

Meanwhile, on the sofa itself sat Ace and Cruz.  The latter was freshly changed out of his own wet clothes—their mother's orders, undoubtedly.  Willa wondered if Maren had scolded Cruz on the drive home for being out so late, for attempting to go out and find his sister. She doubted it.

Maren's animosity was always reserved for Willa alone.

Next to Cruz, Ace stared at her with a hard intensity.  It was not anger that Willa saw in his shaded blue eyes.  Disgust, maybe.  Or astonishment.  Or both.  But not anger.  He looked at her now the same way he had at the boathouse—when he had walked in to see her holding a pistol to Rafe Cameron's blood-splattered forehead.  Maybe Ace had finally realized that his sister was someone to fear, too.

One day, Willa might also find the strength to ask Ace what he had really been doing down at the boathouse with Rafe and Barry. Whether he had gone there knowing she would be there, too. Whether he had meant to hurt her.  Whether he had willingly been part of whatever trap had been laid for JJ and Kiara first.  But tonight was not that night. She was not ready to unearth the grave her brother was digging for himself.  Not when she already had her own tomb to deal with.

The last pair of eyes Willa met belonged to Lex, her twelve-year-old sister, curled into the corner of a nearby gray armchair like a displaced ornament.  Her tiny face was a mix of genuine confusion and feigned irritation, her dark, wide eyes too innocent to understand the true complexity of the evening.  She looked out of place amidst her far older siblings, caught in something she did not need to comprehend yet.  Maybe Lex had only come downstairs to feel included, like the time she had begged to go downtown with her older sister.  Willa had barely glanced at her then.

She barely glanced at her now.

Without a word, without apology or explanation, Willa turned and headed for the grand staircase. Her wet shoes squeaked against the tiles, but she did not care. She did not care about the slippery puddle she was leaving or the inquiring stares burning into her back. All she wanted was the sanctuary of her bedroom—the one place in the cavernous Deveraux mansion where she could breathe, where she could never feel trapped. Where she could shut the door, collapse onto her bed, and weep without the whole island damning her for it.

The sound of footsteps trailed after Willa. She did not need to look back to know it was Maren. Always watching.  Always ensuring.  Ensuring her teenage daughter did not make a sudden detour to her toddler's room to climb out the window like she had so many times so many years ago. It was a wise move, Willa had to admit.  After everything today, even she was not sure what she might do next.

The footsteps followed her down the second-floor hallway, through her bedroom doorway, and almost into her personal en suite—almost.  Over the threshold of her private bathroom, Willa stopped short and turned. She did not bother with words.  Instead, she slammed the door in her mother's face and twisted the lock until it clicked into place.

For a moment afterward, Willa stood entirely still, her hand hovering on the cool metal of the doorknob, the back of her head pressed against the wood.  Then, once she was certain she had recomposed herself, she let out a shaky breath and turned once more, keeping her gaze low—until her attention caught on the faintly stained porcelain of her sink.  Faint pink marks, stubborn remnants of her box-dye experiment, looked back at her.  Her fingers naturally reached for them, hesitant, but then abruptly froze midair.

There was a tremor in her hands, in her knuckles. Not from the cuts and other injuries—those aches she had grown used to.  But her hands themselves.  They had been shaking ever since the SBI agents had screamed at her and the Pogues to freeze, to put their hands in the air, and began demand answers regarding the fugitive Routledge boy.

Willa had not said a word about John B.  And even when he was dead now, she never would.  Not about where he had planned to go, not about what all had occurred while building up to that last, fateful goodbye.  She would carry it all inside—her endless secrets, her growing guilt, her impending grief—even when her body begged to give up.

Because God, was it heavy. Willa was so, so tired.

Slowly, she turned from the sink. She peeled herself away from the memories and the bruises and the too-bright light of the bathroom's vanity. She stripped her dirty clothes and stepped into the shower, twisting the knob so far to the left that the water scalded her skin on contact.

The heat was not enough. She scrubbed her body madly, her arms, her neck, like she could erase the past twenty-four hours from her flesh.  She tilted her face into the stream, hot tears beginning anew, and they blended with the blistering water coursing down her cheeks. It was as if the showerhead fed her sorrow back into her bloodstream, only for it to escape again through her bloodshot eyes.

The water eventually ran cold, but Willa might have stayed in there for hours.  She only finally stepped out when her muscles refused to hold her skeleton upright any longer.  Shivering, she pulled on an old pair of pajamas abandoned in the corner of the bathroom. She did not bother with the mirror as she bypassed it.  She did not care what she looked like.

When she reentered her darkened bedroom, Maren was exactly where Willa expected her to be: perched neatly on the edge of her bed, hands tucked under her thighs, her back perfectly straight. The plum duvet had wrinkled faintly beneath her, the only sign at all that her mother had even moved, even breathed, while she waited.

Automatically, Maren's eyes fixed on her daughter.  She was considering.  Deciding whether to push Willa or let her detonate on her own.  Then, she made the call herself by asking, "Are you feeling better?"

Willa still lingered in the doorway of her en suite, letting the entirety of the falsely tender question settle and fester. The steamy shadows behind her tickled tauntingly against her spine.  She could step back inside, lock the door once more, shut her mother out completely.  But this was her bedroom—her playing field.  Maren might have invaded it, but she would not control it.

Wordlessly, Willa moved.  She gathered her damp clothes and tossed them into the hamper beside the doorway.  Then she crossed the room and sat on her bed, the plush mattress dipping slightly under her weight. She pulled her scarred knees up, crossed them, and stared back at Maren.

Her mother waited, expectant.

Willa blinked.

And said nothing.

Maren turned inward.  So much swam within those forest-green eyes.  "Willa," she called softly.

Just her name.  There was no judgment or theatrics lacing it this time. It was such a contrast to the disclosed venom Willa had heard hours earlier at the Point.  But she knew the reason.  Now, there was no audience to impress anymore, no pretense to maintain. Just the two of them in this bedroom together.

The softness did not fool Willa.  The punishment would come, regardless of the tone.

"You need to talk to me," Maren attempted again.

"I don't—" Willa's throat snagged the words. It was dry—strange, considering how she had been choking on wet sobs just minutes before. She swallowed and tried again. "I don't feel like talking to you, Mom."

The rejection hit Maren with a subtle crack across her smooth complexion.  Willa caught it, felt it.  And refused to feel guilty for it.

Maren's hands moved from beneath herself to clasp tightly in her lap. "Do you want me to get your father instead?"

"No.  I don't feel like talking to anyone, okay?"

Could her mother not take the hint? This was not going to turn into some sappy, heartwarming, healing juncture. They had never been that kind of mother and daughter.  Both of them were quick to temper, quicker to defend themselves, even when wrong, and Willa could already feel the cagey heat returning, rising aggressively in her chest.  She just wanted Maren out of her room.  Whatever lecture was brewing could wait until morning.  Whatever else simmered beneath the surface of her mother's caring façade could wait until morning, too.

Yet still—still—Maren tried again.  She reached out, tentatively, her hand stretching between them like an olive branch. "You've been—"

Willa yanked herself away, dodging the touch before it could fully land. "Can't you just leave me alone?" she snapped.

The figurative olive branch snapped in two.

Maren's outstretched hand wavered. Slowly, her fingers curled into her palm, and her arm dropped back into her lap again.  The openness in her posture retreated as her shoulders pulled back, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side. 

"Will you let me finish?" she growled.

Willa's teeth ground together. Every nerve within her wanted to say no.  Or rather, to say more, to push the envelope, to unknowingly force Maren into leaving her bedroom and give her space to breathe again.  But she hesitated, noting the way her mother's jaw now mirrored hers.  The way her glare shifted before coldly remarking:

"Or do I have to worry about you running off again?"

The question was spoken so casually.  Like it was not meant to be directed so plainly at the runaway teenager.  And yet, the Deveraux daughter was the only possible culprit.

Still, her sage green eyes narrowed into thin slits, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about?"

A foolish bluff.  But it was the only card Willa had.

Maren's head snapped back toward her. "Don't play dumb with me," she chided. "It's been four days. Four. Days. Since I last saw you under this roof. Since you snuck out of this house—again—to do God knows what." She scoffed bitterly, her displeasure swelling.  "Clearly, it was something important because—because I had to pick you up from the local deputies."

"You're acting like I was arrested," Willa muttered, folding her arms.

"You might as well have been!" Maren shouted, tone rising another pitch. "You were in a holding tent, Willa. A holding tent! That's where I was told to go collect you. Do you even understand what that means? Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me?" She leaned forward, strict eyes boring into her daughter's. "Do you want to explain to me what you were doing there in the first place?"

"I was trying to clear John B.'s name," Willa explained.

"John B.," Maren repeated flatly.  Her lips curled like the name itself tasted sour. "It's always about John B., isn't it?"

Willa's shoulders stiffened automatically. Her mother did not get to talk about him like that. "He's my friend," she sharply defended.

"Your friend who's a cop killer."

"John B. didn't kill anyone!"

Maren shook her head in disbelief. "Baby, it's all over the news. The evidence is there. He's guilty."

"It's a lie!" Willa exclaimed. Her heartbeat thundered, so loud she would swear her mother could hear it. "Rafe Cameron killed Sheriff Peterkin, and Ward Cameron planted the evidence to frame John B.! That's the truth."

"Sweetheart, do you hear yourself right now?"

"Mom, I know it sounds insane—"

"No, what's insane," Maren cut in, "is that you let yourself fall in with him to begin with.  Look at what he's done to you." She gestured toward Willa, fierce attention dragging over the scars on her knees, the redness of her bruised knuckles, and finally landing on the fresh purple smudges darkening the left side of her face. "Are we just going to pretend that doesn't exist?"

Willa's cheeks burned.  "John B. didn't do this!"

"Then who did?" Maren challenged.

Willa's breath hitched, throat restricting like a noose had wrapped around it.  How could she ever possibly tell her mother that truth?  That these bruises were not from John B. but from Barry Benson—an armed drug dealer she had clocked in the head with a wrench to protect another Pogue boy?

If she even hinted at any of that, Willa would never see the light of Kildare Island again.

So, she said nothing.

And the silence was still damning.

Maren was a shark who smelled blood in the water.  She smirked triumphantly.  Her daughter was covered in bruises, and she could only smile, knowing that she had won.

"No answer?  Of course not.  Because you don't want to talk," she mocked.  "Because you know, deep down, this is exactly what happens when you get involved with people like him." She exhaled sharply through her nose. "But it's over now. John B. got exactly what he deserved. And I'm just grateful you didn't go down with him."

"John B. did not deserve to die!" Willa hissed.  "You didn't even know him!"

"And you did?" Maren threw back in her face.  "Willa, you knew that boy for two weeks."

Willa's hands balled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. "I grew up with him, Mom!"

"Grew up with him?" Maren sneered. "You grew up on opposite ends of the island. You don't know a thing about him or his kind."

"His kind?" Willa repeated.  Her stomach twisted violently, a sick, hot, and fresh outrage bubbling up inside her. Of course, it always came back to this—to where someone was from.  To how being born on the south side of Kildare Island made a teenager less than human in her mother's eyes.

"The people you've been so desperate to throw your life away for," Maren goaded.  "And let me tell you something—it's not going to end well. Not for you. Not for them. You think those Pogues care about your future? They'll drag you down until there's nothing left of you!"

"God, I am so sick of this. Of you. Of everyone on this side of the island acting like kids from the Cut don't amount to anything!" Willa yelled.

"Because they don't!" Maren boomed, her voice echoing through the bedroom. "Those Pogues are nothing but trouble. They have no futures, no prospects, and if you stick with them, neither will you. So, I won't allow it."

Willa glowered.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're done," Maren answered sharply.  "From this moment on, you stay on this side of the island. No more sneaking out. No more Pogues."

Willa nearly saw red.

"You can't just decide that for me! I'm not going to stop seeing them! They're my friends!"

"Then they're going to cost you everything."

At first, Willa felt wrath.  A newfound, unfamiliar fire so consuming she wanted to scream until her throat gave out.  She wanted to hurl every accusation at Maren, to tell her she was wrong, that she did not understand, that she did not care—and that something was seriously wrong with her for it.  But then, like a wave pulling back to reveal the wreckage it left behind, misery swept in.  Every unhealed piece of her—the splintered parts that John B.'s death had effectively shattered—came rushing upward.

How did it come to this? she thought frantically. How did having friends—fighting for them—turn into something my own mother could not forgive?

"They are not your friends," Maren added with unrelenting disdain, like she could read her daughter's very mind. "Friends wouldn't encourage sneaking out. Friends wouldn't encourage lying to your parents. Friends wouldn't get you into trouble with the law! This is serious, Willa, and you just don't seem to understand that."

"No, you don't understand!" Willa pointed a battered knuckle at her mother. "I don't sneak out because of my friends—I sneak out because I hate it here! I don't lie to you because of them—I do it because I know you'd never accept me for who I really am! You refuse to see me. You don't even try!" Her voice quivered, but the flare in her blood burned hotter. "I got involved with the law because I was trying to do the right thing! I was trying to prove my friend was innocent! But you'd never believe that because you don't trust me. You've never trusted me."

"Trust is earned, Willa. Not given," Maren swiftly returned. "And right now, you're proving to me every day that I can't trust you. You're disrespecting me, your father, and this family. You're throwing away everything we've worked for with this childish behavior."

"Everything you've worked for," Willa corrected bitterly.

Maren's nostrils flared. "No. Everything we've worked for. I don't know why you think I have some vendetta against you. Your father and I have the same expectations for all our children. You are a Deveraux. That means something. Every time you step out of this house, you are representing us." 

Her appraising eyes scanned Willa openly—disappointment radiating from her. "I have raised you to follow in my footsteps," she continued. "You are my legacy, Willa. My firstborn daughter. I won't deny that I expect more from you than from anyone else. Because I know you're capable of it. But right now, you're acting like a stranger. You're letting these Pogues pull you into their messes, and if you don't begin to distance yourself from them, there'll come a point where even I can't help you anymore."

Willa's tearful voice was a near snarl when she retaliated. "You've never helped me."

The bedroom fell into an abrupt, uncomfortable silence.  Willa's watery eyes remained locked onto her mother who had gone still, too.  In front of Willa's very eyes, Maren's face darkened, turning crimson, her composure wavering for just a fraction of a second—before she reassembled herself into that stony, impenetrable mask. 

Maren drew a slow, measured breath, wiped her palms on her tailored pants, and suddenly stood.

There was no final admonishment, no sharp rebuke, no grounding for the seething Deveraux daughter.  Just a quiet, purposeful exit for the rattled Deveraux matriarch.

Good, Willa huffed. Good fucking riddance.

Maren's shoulders were squared, her back still impossibly straight as she walked to the open bedroom door.  Willa tracked her every movement, waiting for some final insult, for her to turn around and try one last attempt at reestablishing dominance. But Maren did not look back. She stepped through the doorway and, in one swift motion, shut the door behind her.

Silence reigned.  Beautiful, desperately needed silence.

Then came the click of her bedroom door's lock.

No.

Willa's stomach plummeted to the floor.  She stumbled off her bed, nearly tripping over her own feet, partially blind from agitated tears, as she lunged for the doorknob. Her hands fumbled against the smooth metal, twisting and pulling.  It did not budge.

"Mom?" she called. "Mom, what are you doing?"

"I'm helping you, sweetheart."

"No." Willa yanked harder, her whole body pulling against the door. "You can't just lock me in here!"

"I can," Maren insisted from the other side of the door. "Because it's what you need. You need to calm down and rest. We'll talk again in the morning when you're ready to listen and appreciate what I've done for you."

"Are you kidding me?!" Willa slammed her closed fists against the wood. "Open this door! Let me out!"  She struck the door again, harder, faster.  "Let me out!  You can't do this!"

Every blatant strike echoed her spiraling rage—until she was hysterically screaming:

"You fucking psycho!  I'll break this fucking door down! I'll scream until everyone in this fucking neighborhood knows exactly who we are!"

And who were they?

The Deverauxs were hardly a family.  They were a vile, fractured unit.  Deranged children with cruel parents.

Maren was not protecting Willa.  She was not helping her.  She was killing her.  Locking her away like some helpless princess in a fairy tale, a modern-day Rapunzel.  But unlike the storybooks, Maren would not hesitate to let her daughter rot, to watch her waste away into something finally pliable, something she could break apart and reassemble into the perfect Deveraux heir.

"Mom!" Willa shrieked again.

There was no answer now.  Of course there would not be.  Maren was already long gone.  Willa imagined her walking away down the hall, chin high, satisfied with her righteous display of discipline.

Still, Willa screamed after her.  "Let me out!"

Willa's hands began to sting from the blunt impacts of each hit against the locked door.  Soon, her skin split again, blood pooling along her knuckles and smearing the polished, white wood.  But the pain barely registered.  It was nothing—just another layer of hurt for Willa to pile onto the rest.

No matter, her strength—as vicious as it was—had no choice but to ebb.  With every erratic punch, her fists floundered more and more until finally, they stilled altogether.  Her sweaty forehead thunked heavily against the wood as her throbbing arms fell limp at her sides, useless now, just like everything else in her life. Her bedroom room spun slightly.  The air had been sucked out, leaving her gasping in a vacuum of rage, despair, and exhaustion.

She slid down the blood-stained door slowly, her back scraping against the frame until she hit the floor.  Her knees pulled to her chest as her arms wrapped around herself, trying in vain to hold all that she still was together.

Then the tears came again.  In an unstoppable rush, they streamed down her face.  They soaked into her sleeves as she buried her head, her body shaking with each loud sob.  She did not care who heard her.  Let her entire family hear her.  Let the walls shake with her pain.  Let her mother hear what she had done—if Maren even could feel anything for the sounds of a weeping child, her weeping child.

And so, Willa stayed there, curled up on the floor of her empty bedroom.  Her newest cage.  She wiped her face once, twice, smearing tears and blood across her skin, leaving her numb all over again.

The bedroom door behind her, ever silent, stayed locked.

➸➸➸

IT WAS TWENTY-FOUR more hours before Willa's bedroom door opened again.

In those long, shadowy hours, she had barely moved. The only thing she had managed to do was to pick herself up from the floor and crawl back into her bed. The sheets were wrinkled and icy now. 

How had she ever felt safe here? How had she convinced herself that this room, with its pastel purple walls and soothing lights, could ever really protect her?  She had let her guard down so completely, forgetting—ignoring the fact that her mother could take even this from her.

Willa had not even known her door could lock from the outside.  Had it always been that way?  She supposed it did not exactly matter now. What was done was done.  Maren had isolated her, had sealed her away like a disobedient child sent to time-out.

Maybe she would be in time-out forever.  Maybe she would die here.  Maybe she would be forgotten entirely.  Would anyone care?

Someone must have.  Because the door was opening.

Willa did not stir, regardless.  She remained buried in the heap of blankets at the edge of her bed, as far from the door as she could possibly be.  Whoever it was—whether there to mock her, scold her, but certainly not release her—did not deserve her attention.

Soft footsteps shuffled across the floor.  Not her mother, then.

"I brought you something to eat," came Hudson's gentle voice.

Willa's stomach nearly tossed at the mention of food. She had not eaten since . . . when?  At The Wreck?  She had barely managed a few bites then before nausea overtook her.  That felt like ages ago.  She should have been starving.  Now, though, her hunger had long since dulled to nothingness.

"I'm not hungry," she whispered to her older brother.

There was a pause between the two eldest Deveraux siblings.  The sound of a plate being set down on her desk floated across the room, but the sounds of retreating footsteps, of a lock clicking back into place did not follow it.  Instead, the bedroom door closed softly.  And Hudson stayed on this side of it.

"You mind if I sit with you a little bit?" he asked cautiously.

Willa stayed silent.  Her gaze had long ago fixed solely on the shadows of her walk-in closet before her. They had grown heavier and blacker with each passing hour, midnight pressing in.  The darkness there felt familiar, inviting.  It matched the void inside her, a place where she could disappear if she let herself. Oh, how she wanted to let herself.

"I don't care," she finally muttered, remembering Hudson was waiting for a verbal response.

She truly did not.  Or at least, Willa told herself she did not care.  But he was the first Deveraux to approach her since she had been locked away.  That small fact forced her to shift, rolling onto her other side until her bleary eyes found him as he eased onto the edge of her bed.  He had unknowingly claimed the same spot Maren had once sat in.  She braced herself for the next reckoning to come.

Hudson was her older brother, her own protector.  But even protectors could wound and shame.  It was his nature, after all.  Because while Willa was the eldest daughter, he was the eldest son.  He was burdened with the kind of responsibility that made one a parent long before they ever had children of their own.  The one cursed to correct, to guide, to ensure his siblings had opportunities he had already missed himself—and to only earn their resentment for it in the end.

So, it was unsurprising to Willa when he carefully prodded her, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Willa emitted a rattled gust of breath, the sound catching against her chapped lips. "No," she said, truthfully. "Ask me something else."

Hudson's nod was slow, and thoughtful, as if he might respect her boundaries.  But his thoughts undeniably lingered, searching for a different entry point to the same topic. "That day in the coffee shop," he began, "when you . . . when you defended that Maybank kid—"

"His name is JJ."

"Were you already friends with him then?"

Willa considered her answer.  JJ Maybank was the trickiest boy she had ever met. "More or less," she replied.

"It's a yes or no question," Hudson pressed.

"Yes," she answered, no hesitation this time.

That single word seemed to sap the little strength left from Hudson's posture.  He slumped slightly, shoulders drooping now, and sank further into the bed. Was it more disappointment, more disbelief that he felt?  It was hard to tell, but his lips pulled downward in a frown.

"Those kids aren't safe," he said at last.

"Please." Willa's head shook against the pillow. The swollen bruise on her cheek stung as it grazed the fabric. "I don't need a lecture from you too."

"Willa." Hudson leaned forward, becoming more insistent. "Mom and Dad are right. They're not safe. One of them just died, and you were right there when it happened. It could have easily been you . . . And from the way things sound, it still could. You need to stay away from them."

Willa sat up. "What if Wesley had been a Pogue? Would you have stopped seeing him if Mom and Dad demanded it?" she questioned.  At the mention of his own boyfriend, Hudson rightfully hesitated. She heard the faint, telling click of his teeth coming together. "See?" she pressed, her voice growing steadier, a spark reigniting after hours of so much quiet. "They're just labels. That's all they are. But the people—the actual people—they're not dangerous. The Pogues are already some of the most important people in the world to me. I can't just . . . turn that off. I care about them."

"Caring for a boy like JJ Maybank is going to get you killed."

Tears welled in Willa's eyes.  She was not even sure when they had started again, if they had ever really stopped at all, but they noticeably shimmered at the edges of her vision now, refusing to fall just yet. "How can you all be so cruel to them?" she demanded. "What have they ever done to you?"

Hudson frowned. "They put my little sister in danger."

"They didn't do anything!" Willa's voice rose as she pointed to herself. "I ended up where I did on my own! I made my choices. I didn't die for them, okay? I'm still here. I'm. Right. Here." She punctuated the words with stabbing gestures at her own torso, at the heart pounding furiously there, keeping her alive in spite of so many that wished the adamant organ would not. "And John B. is dead.  He's dead because a stupid, broken system decided he wasn't worth saving. Because people like you only ever saw him as a Pogue."

The first tear slipped free, then another, carving paths down her jaw and pooling near her collarbones.  Hudson did not move, but his eyes followed the tears. She kept going. "My friend is dead," she whispered. "And all you, Mom, and Dad can talk about is how he deserved it. How you think his life didn't matter. My friend is dead, Hudson, and not one of you has even said you're sorry.  Not one of you has cared that I'm hurting!"

Her palms flew to her face.  Furiously, she tried to stem the flow, but her body trembled with the force of her cries, shoulders shaking as she curled in on herself again.  She despised how weak she felt beneath her brother's judging eyes. How broken, how small she must have looked to him.  But even more so, she abhorred that no one believed her—no one saw what she saw, felt what she felt. Why could no one at all see how much the Pogues meant to her?

From behind her hands, Willa heard her brother shift closer.  Slowly, attentively, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his embrace.  His hand found the back of her head, cradling her against his chest. "I'm sorry," he murmured into her ear.  Willa did not fight him when he spoke; not the way she fought their mother.  His concern was genuine—she knew that much.  However, it did not make it easier to forgive the hatred and disapproval he still held for the people she cared about.  But at least he could let her grieve.

For a while, they simply sat there. Hudson's hand continued to smooth back her knotted hair, waiting for her tears to subside.  When she finally went still, her breathing coming as close to even as it ever could again, Hudson broke the quiet. "What can I do?" he asked her.

There was something in his tone.  Timid, uncertain . . . yet offering.  Willa lifted her head from his chest, her red-rimmed eyes meeting his.

"Let me say goodbye."

Hudson's shoulders tensed once more.  He had braced for this answer, she could tell, and yet the words still pained him, still made him uncomfortable, knowing only he could give such a critical reality to her now. "Willa, we just got you back—"

"I'm not running away," she insisted. "I'll come back. I promise. I just . . . I need this. Please. Let me have this, and I'll never go back to the Cut again."

The last part—the lie—settled in the space between the Deveraux siblings.  A feeble promise that neither of them fully believed.  Willa was not sure why she even uttered it.  She could feel Hudson's knowing stare on her, see within his open expression that he recognized the empty assurance.  Once more, as the eldest brother, it was his duty to see through Willa's tricks, her own self-deceptions.  But it was also his job to see the honest pain in her eyes—the haunted look she carried, to do all that he could to ensure the ghosts passed on, leaving his little sister unharmed again.

With a deep, reluctant sigh, Hudson's head dropped in silent concession.  But then he peeked to the double windows flanking either side of Willa's bed.

"You're not climbing out of those," he said flatly.

Willa nodded her begrudged agreement. "I know. Or I'd have done it already."

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed Hudson's reserved face.  Deep down, maybe he still understood the impulse of his younger sister.  He had to have thought about sneaking out of his own window more times than he cared to admit—especially whenever Wesley was involved.  Though he could try to ignore it, he could surely still remember what it felt like to be a kid again when they were caught between rules and freedom, and desperately craved the latter.

He must have, because he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his car keys.  His hand hovered for a beat before he extended them. "Don't make me regret this," he muttered, pressing the keys into Willa's palm.  He then untangled himself from the bed and stood. "I'll check downstairs, make sure the coast is clear," he announced. "But once you're out that door, you're on your own. I didn't see you. I didn't help you. Got it?"

Willa's fingers curled tighter around the car keys, hope igniting through her, as he crossed to the door. "Got it," she confirmed. "Thanks, Hudsy."

Hudson turned the doorknob slowly, leaving it unlocked.  Before slipping out into the hall, he glanced over his shoulder. "Have my car back by seven tomorrow morning," he added.

"I will," Willa quietly called after him.  And she meant it.  She hoped she did, anyway.

This was one promise she desperately wanted to keep to her big brother.

Then she was gone.

➸➸➸

WILLA REACHED THE OPPOSITE end of the island without incident. The clean streets of the Figure Eight faded easily into those that belonged solely to the Cut.  It felt strange, driving down these roads at one in the morning with no fear of seeing flashing police lights in her rearview mirror.  No sirens.  No Kildare County patrol cars prowling for her and her friends.  They had found their criminal.  They had killed their criminal.  It was supposed to be over.

But not for Willa.

Not for the girl who had been the criminal's friend, for the girl who would have traded her life in an instant to prove his innocence.  The wrong person was dead.  John B. had been stolen from her and now she was stranded, seeking the only place she could still feel him.

The Chateau.

The narrow dirt road leading up to the shack wound through darkness. The moonlight was gone, the storm clouds of the fading Hurricane Danielle still thick overhead, leaving her brother's car as the sole source of light.  The beams cut through the overgrown grass as she pulled up to the edge of the lawn and killed the engine.  For many minutes, she quietly sat there in the driver's seat, staring through the windshield.

The rundown house was wrapped in caution tape that fluttered weakly in the island's breeze. The cops had already come and gone; their investigation definitively closed.  The house was essentially abandoned now, waiting for a realtor to strip it of its history and sell it to strangers, forgoing all the Routledge father and son's hard-earned memories and stability there.

Maybe Willa would buy it.  When an auctioneer came running, she would drain her inheritance and throw every cent into the skeletons of this lonely house in the Cut.  Let it rot with her emboldened intentions.  One final insult to her parents.

Pushing the car door open, Willa stepped onto the grass.  The headlights blinked out, leaving her enveloped in near-pitch blackness.  She tread carefully through the yard, her sandals crunching against scattered debris, hoping she did not accidentally step on an item of importance to the Pogues.  Out of the corner of her eye, she could still see the newly purchased hot tub, still hear its stagnant water sloshing slightly.  She bypassed it and reached the porch, its rickety steps groaning as she climbed them, and then hesitated at the door.

Her hand hovered over the knob.  She hated the way it turned so easily beneath her palm, hated how the door swung open, knowing no one would be there to greet her.  No Routledge would ever answer this door again.

Still holding her breath, Willa stepped into the empty Chateau. She paused on the threshold, her hand grazing the wall.  Somewhere near the door was a light switch—she had seen it before, though she had never needed it.  The last to get electricity, the Pogues had always relied on flashlights, but now, the Cut's power had been restored.  Finally, Willa's fingers found the switch, and with a soft click, the room sprang to life under a dim, yellow glow.

From the inside, it was unmistakably a home run by teenagers. Odd articles of clothing—both girls' and boys'—were strewn across the dusty wooden floors, the comings and goings of late nights and even later mornings.  The narrow kitchen alcove was a disaster: beer stains and chip crumbs littered the counters, and a moldy loaf of bread was balanced on the edge of the full sink. The lone, round table near the living room was littered with other forgotten plates, their grimy surfaces an ode to neglect—and genuine forgetfulness.

And in the center of it all, the faded brown couch, which was pushed against the stretch of dirty windows on the far side of the foyer, remained pulled out into a makeshift bed.  It had been like that the first time Willa came here, and it had not changed since.  An endless sleepover at the Chateau.

But beneath the chaos of lively, wild kids living here lay a fresh stain that had not been there before. The Chateau was not just messy now; it had been violated. And though it had been days since Willa had last been here, the signs were still clear.  Drawers were wrenched open, their contents spilled onto the floor.  Belongings in cupboards, on shelves, and in dressers had all been rifled through, dumped, and left in disarray.  The Kildare Police had shown no restraint, no respect at all as they tore John B.'s home to shreds.

Eventually, Willa's saddened stare caught on a haphazardly tossed backpack slumped on the round table, its once-bulging contents emptied.  It was JJ's. For what was likely the first time in the bag's existence, it held nothing.  No joints tucked into hidden pockets.  No gun stashed away in the case of "square groupers."  No molded mount of Royal Merchant gold.

Whichever deputy had dug through this—Shoupe, Thomas, or Plumb—had stripped it clean, just like they had stripped Willa and the Pogues of everything else that mattered.  Their treasures. Their proof.  All gone.  And the teenagers had never even had the chance to protect it.

The transformed house seemed to press in around the Deveraux daughter.  How was she supposed to say goodbye to this?  How was she supposed to let go of the good that had once lived here, when evil had seeped its way into the very foundation, poisoning the place until it was nearly unrecognizable?

The thought left Willa so unsteady, so dizzy, that she did not hear the footsteps on the porch.  She did not hear the creak of the stairs or the soft thud of boots on the wood.  Not until the door swung open.

Willa spun around, her heart leaping.  A foolish hope bubbled up.  John B.?

But it was not the Routledge boy, the one who had vanished into the tide that took all.

It was JJ.

The Maybank boy stood in the Chateau's doorway.  His blonde hair was wild and tangled.  Dark circles framed his icy blue eyes, making them look colder than usual, more piercing.  He had not slept—probably had not eaten either.  He was still wearing the same rain-soaked clothes from the Point.  He had not gone home.

No.  Because this was home.  Or at least, it had been.

But the Chateau was not a home to anyone anymore.

It had been John B. Routledge who made the place feel alive.  John B., who had been the glue holding them all together.  John B., who had bound Willa Deveraux and JJ Maybank into each other's lives. Within these walls and beyond them.

Because it was John B. who had inevitably walked a drunken Willa—half-laughing, half-stumbling—straight to JJ's keg at the Boneyard.  It was John B. who had rolled his eyes when JJ bristled, before telling him to suck it up when she staggered onto the Chateau's front lawn, hungover and so wildly out of place.  But more than that, it was John B. who had sworn to her—sworn to both of them—that their working together would be worth it. That every insane risk, every hot-headed fight, every ounce of impulsive pain they inflicted on each other would pay off in the end.

Because, in the end, there was supposed to be four hundred million dollars in gold.

But now? There was nothing.  The treasure hunt was over. John B. was dead. And Willa and JJ were left with nothing but empty hands.

Still, as Willa stood there, staring into the open doorway behind her, she realized she was still not ready to walk away.  Perhaps John B.'s promise was not entirely futile.  He did not need her anymore, no.  He was not here anymore, no.

But someone else was.  Someone else did need her now.

Or maybe she needed him.

An unexpected sob broke free from Willa.  Before she could stop herself, she was moving, crossing the creaking floorboards of the living room.  She did not know what she was doing, only that JJ—so often the one to push her away, who might still push her away now—was standing there.  But as she reached him, his arms opened, and his face twisted in honest pain.  He had left his armor behind.  For once, he was willing to bear his scars to her.  He wanted her to see him.

And then she was in his arms.  Willa collided with JJ, her arms flinging around his neck.  The impact rocked them both, but his grip on her held fast, his hands locking around her waist.  His head dropped to her shoulder, and she felt the shuddering breath he drew against her collarbone.  Her fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him as tightly as he held her.

Willa tilted her head against his.  Tears streaked her cheeks freely now, but she did not pull back. Neither did he.  For several long moments, Willa and JJ simply held each other. Allowed each other's otherwise vicious hearts to beat in tandem, their barbed skin to become soft with one another's grief.

They were just teenagers.

Teenagers who had once hated each other. They likely would again come morning.  But for now, they were just two kids mourning the bridge they had lost between them.  The bridge they had not yet even realized they no longer needed.

Entire minutes passed before they dared to step back, but even then, they did not fully let go of each other. Willa's fingers held onto JJ's shoulders.  His palms stayed curved at her sides.  Tears still gleamed on both their youthful faces, but inside their little bubble, the world turned calm.  The world held its breath.

JJ's gaze remained locked on hers, sapphire molding into sage, unflinching even as his facial features shifted. His brows furrowed, his throat clearing abruptly. "Are you alone?"

The question caught her off guard. "What?"

JJ's chin jerked toward the open door behind them. "Whose car is out front? It's not yours."

"Oh." Willa exhaled slowly. "It's my older brother's."

"Family's got you on house arrest, huh?"

"You have no idea," Willa grumbled halfheartedly. "As soon as I got home, my mom locked me in my room. Hudson's the only reason I'm here at all."

JJ's tone darkened. "What else did they do?"

"They took my car keys. My phone. Pretty much anything that could help me leave."

"They'll regret that. The phone, at least. Now they've lost their only way to track you."

Willa shrugged.  She suspected that even if her parents realized she was gone by now, they would not begin looking for her until morning.  Partly because they could not risk the image.  But mainly—and Willa was certain of this—because they would not know how to find her down here, this far into the Cut.  Odds were, they would never possibly find the Chateau.  They would never find Willa within it.

"Maybe I should just stay here forever, then," she finally said.

JJ did not respond right away, but something in his expression still suggested he liked her response.  His hands tightened at her hips, a barely perceptible pulse, before he abruptly pulled back.  He spun on his heel and strode toward the front door.  Willa stayed behind, confused, until she saw him bend to retrieve something from the peeling white porch.  He returned holding a box she had not noticed before—a 12-pack of Pabst.

He pressed the beer into her hands.

"I'll stay here with you."

➸➸➸

WILLA AND JJ PROCEEDED to drink late into the summer night.  They sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the pullout couch.  The edge of a wobbly coffee table separated them—JJ at the head, Willa beside him, her shoulder nearly brushing his.  Between them, a card game's deck was scattered amidst empty beer cans.  They were not playing.  Not really.  They were drunk.  Drunk and grieving.

Currently, JJ was not paying attention to the cards at all.  His jaw was clenched in concentration, his fingers loosely hovering above a beer can that wobbled on his knee.  Willa sipped her own drink, watching the can, waiting for the moment it would tip and fall.

"You took another punch for me."

The comment was like a match struck in the dark. Willa's bleary, unfocused stare snapped away from the beer can to JJ—to his low, sudden intrusion.  But the Maybank boy was not looking at her directly, anyway.  His eyes were locked on the painful marks smeared across her cheekbone and jaw like war paint.  They were disturbing bruises.  Ugly reminders of Barry and his solid, near-manic punch.  Willa was lucky she had only been hit once.

"To be fair," Willa started, keeping her voice light, "I wasn't exactly planning on taking one this time. That wrench was supposed to make more of a statement."

Her lips quirked in an attempt to ease the tension, but the effort barely touched the taut silence surrounding JJ.  He did not scoff or even crack a smile.  Her joke did not work because JJ did not want to laugh—did not want to pretend like what had happened to Willa did not matter.  She could see it in his stillness, in the way his fingers now tensed tightly against the curve of the can that was still balanced on his knee. He was not just upset.  He was furious.  Guilt-ridden.

Without a word, JJ's hand moved, his fingers brushing the edge of Willa's jaw.  The unexpected contact made her freeze, the oxygen catching in her lungs as his fingertips grazed the bruises, his touch calloused but careful.  His hand lingered, warm against the cool ache of her skin, and he tilted her face gently to the side, his narrowed eyes following the angry purple and blue that climbed toward her hairline.

The closeness of him was overwhelming.  Willa caught the familiar, faint scent of lemony magnolia and sea salt clinging to him, the marsh woven into his very skin.  Her throat tightened.

"Took it like a champ," JJ murmured to her.  His voice was softer now again.

Willa swallowed hard. "Do you believe me now when I say I care about you?"

His hand fell away.

Yet, he kept his ocean eyes on Willa, the focus in his stare nearly unnerving her.  It was unlike him. Normally, JJ was all unruly energy, his fidgety attention constantly flitting from one thing to the next. But tonight, he was still. Too still.  His gaze clung to Willa's, searching for something she was not sure she could even give him.

Was it the alcohol?

Of course it had to be.  JJ was drunk.  It was the only plausible reason for him to look at her as if she were the only thing in the room.

"I'm sorry."

Willa blinked.

Had she heard him right? Or was she drunker than she had realized, too?

JJ exhaled loudly, his voice firmer this time. "I'm sorry for doubting you. You're a Pogue, Willa," he continued before she could respond, before she could pinch herself awake. "You picked your side that very first night at the Boneyard—when you warned John B. instead of Topper."

Willa frowned. "You heard that?"

JJ shrugged. "Kind of hard not to when you were screaming it in my ear."

She winced. "Sorry."

JJ waved it off. "You don't have anything to apologize for. You were right. That whole night was on me. Every last bit of it—the gun, the fight . . . right down to me stealing that damn keg to begin with."

Willa could not help it; a soft laugh escaped her. "Who would've thought it'd take a punch in the face to get an apology out of you."

"Two punches."

"Oh, right, my mistake. Because it was definitely the second punch that did the trick. Absolutely nothing else before that."

"Now you're getting it." JJ chuckled too, but the sudden sound was frayed, forced, weighed down by a heaviness that refused to leave the living room.  The teenagers' combined laughter carried briefly what might have been joy—only for everlasting shadows to creep in again. Even as they tried to pretend, JJ's smile crumbled almost as soon as it had appeared.

His focus subtly shifted over Willa's shoulder.  He scanned the cluttered space of the Chateau like he was searching for something, or maybe someone—someone that would never be there again—before it settled back on her.

"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly. "Coming to the Chateau that day? After the party?"

So many questions about regret.  John B. had asked Willa something similar.  Her mother had challenged the idea, too.  And now JJ.  A bitter, defeated part of her wondered why so many subconsciously felt the need to remind her of where she did not belong, to hint that in another world, in another universe, she would have never ended up here.

But she had found her place—her footing—and had stubbornly tethered herself to this life of decrepit marshlands and perilous treasure hunts.  She had tethered herself to JJ.  To the Pogues.  She was not going to let that go so easily.

"No," Willa answered.  She paused, only just remembering the beer can still in her hand, and took another sip. "What about you? Do you regret me showing up?"

"Knowing I was the one who made you puke your guts out?  Not a chance.  Just wish I'd had a camera."

The joke was almost enough to make a glowering Willa smile again.  Almost.  But the opportunity slipped through her fingers like the Boneyard's sand because, like clockwork all its own, JJ's teasing tone immediately went away again.  His grin grew tired and faltered, steadily replaced by something quieter.  He sat with it while Willa patiently watched him, the Maybank boy likely testing whether or not to speak it aloud into their existence.

"I do have one regret, though," JJ finally admitted.  His gaze dropped to his lap, to the sand-crusted cards that had slipped from the coffee table to the floor between them. "Convincing John B. to go out on the marsh that day. To look for the Grady White."

The playful warmth in Willa's face vanished. "JJ—"

He shook his head, cutting her off before she could say more.  It was not an angry gesture.  It was his only way of telling her to stop—to let him finish.  To let him live in it.

"I told him we had nothing to lose," JJ continued remorsefully.  He did not look at her still, his eyes unfocused, seeing something only he could. A single tear slipped down his cheek, but he did not wipe it away. "And then I lost him."

Willa did not know what to say.  There was nothing to say.

Carefully, she reached out, her hand brushing against his. JJ did not respond, did not feel her touch at first. Then, slowly, he seemed to come back to her, sinking into the comfort she offered him. His hand gradually tightened around hers, not too much, just enough to let her know he felt it—felt her.

Then, the front door creaked open behind them.

Both Willa and JJ turned in sync, hands falling away from each other.  Tears still swam in their eyes as they looked toward the entrance.  Standing there, shoulder-to-shoulder, were Kiara and Pope—their last friends on the entire island.  Neither newcomer spoke.  Their small faces said it all: they were just as beaten down, just as lost.

Kiara stepped inside first, Pope following close behind.  The door clicked shut behind them, quiet but final.  They did not need to explain why they were there as they sank to their knees on either side of the coffee table, facing Willa and JJ. They became like the four corners of a broken compass, pulled together by gravity alone.

The Chateau, though deathly still and uncharacteristically quiet just minutes before, seemed to dare to breathe again as the four friends reunited with one another.  More beers were eventually passed around and the forgotten deck of cards was reshuffled. But even as the fresh motions carried them all forward, the living room felt restless. The absence, the understanding of who was not there with the Pogues, haunted every corner around them.

Kiara stared at her hand of cards, her eyes unfocused, as though still searching for vast answers in the pattern of suits and numbers.  Pope did not even bother pretending.  His gaze kept drifting down the shadowed hallway toward the Routledge office, the door hanging slightly ajar.  Once, that locked door had consumed him—its mysteries, its secrets, its pull.  Now, it was just another ghost in a house that seemed full of them.

All the while, Willa looked at each of her three friends in turn, realizing that none of them, including herself, had really planned to come to the Chateau tonight. They had all just . . . arrived.  Drawn by some invisible force, some unspoken truth they all seemed to know but could not possibly explain to an outsider.  The Chateau was not a home anymore, no.  It could not ever be again.  But it was still something. Their last shelter against the storms tearing through Kildare Island, and through themselves.

And so, they sat there, the four of them.  Willa.  Kiara.  Pope.  JJ.  Teenagers playing cards no one cared to win, chugging beers that could not quite numb the ache in their feeble chests.  They held on—not to the game, not to the drinks, but to each other.

The night stretched on.

➸➸➸

ON THE FIRST DAY of August, Willa and the Pogues woke to the blaze of fire and the taste of warm beer.

They were gathered under the sprawling branches of the massive sycamore that stood on the farthest edge of the Cut's reach. Its thick limbs stretched across the bright sky, casting long, dappled shadows that cooled the humid air.  The tree, in all its colossal glory, had always been there, a quiet guardian of the Chateau's backyard for generations of Routledge families, but today, it became something more.

Willa, Kiara, and Pope stood in an unbroken line before it.  Earlier that morning, the sycamore had still been whole, its thick bark unmarred by human touch.  But JJ had changed that—first by hacking at it with a hatchet borrowed from the garage, and now with the slow scorch of a blowtorch, searing letters and numbers into its newly exposed wood.

He was killing the tree—that much was obvious.  Kiara had also made it abundantly clear.  But no one had stopped him.  No one had tried.  What was one more dead thing to the Pogues?

When JJ finally stepped back, his work finished, he fell into place at Willa's side.  Together, the four teenagers stared at the heart carved into the wounded tree.  Within its imperfect shape, the burned memorial read:

2003 — 2020

JOHN B. ROUTLEDGE

⚡︎  P4L  ⚡︎

Somehow, the simplicity of the engraving felt more powerful than anything ornate ever could.  It would never be a grave marker in a cold, detached cemetery where occasional strangers would stand and whisper stories about John B. that they could never understand but claimed they did.  It would always be something real.  Because John B. belonged here, on the outskirts of the Chateau, where the wind carried the scent of the marsh, where the sun kissed the grass he had grown up running through.  He belonged with the people who loved him, who would never let him be forgotten.

JJ raised his hand.  Within it, he held a dented flask filled with something strong.  A farewell, not in speech, but in the silent burn of whiskey for his very best friend—the only kind of goodbye he could manage today.  On Willa's other side, Kiara and Pope held a small, wooden memory box together.  They had thought of burying it, but decided at the last minute they would keep it inside the Chateau, on the mantle that held no TV or family photos, as a way of keeping John B.'s spirit alive in the house he had made theirs.

And then there was Willa.  Empty-handed but not empty-hearted.  When no eulogy came—because no words ever could—JJ, Kiara, and Pope drifted back to the Chateau's porch.  But not Willa.  She stayed by the sycamore the longest.

She had to face this.  Even if it felt impossible.  Especially because it felt impossible.

Her body was drained, running on fumes.  She had not slept the night before, even as the others had eventually passed out in drunken stupors.  Every time her eyes had tried to close, another pair awaited her in the dark.  Those same eyes seemed to follow her now, watching from wherever he might have been.  She could almost hear his voice, urging her to take that first step forward.

So, she steeled herself and approached the base of the sycamore alone.  She crouched in the dirt and began to dig slowly, carefully, creating a small, shallow hole in the soil.  When it was done, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper.  The edges were worn, creased from the countless times her anxious fingers had already run over them.  On the outside, written in hurried letters, were the words:

Dear John B.

Her vision blurred as she pressed the note to her lips. The paper quivered as her breath hit it, as if it, too, carried all the things she had foolishly left unsaid.  She held the letter there for one more second, one more heartbeat, before lowering it to the earth.

Her hands moved reverently, burying the paper like she was laying a piece of her own self to rest.  Her palms lingered in the dirt when it was done, tracing the freshly turned mound.  It felt impossibly small for the enormity of her grief.  But it was all she had left to give.

Finally, Willa rose again, her legs shaky. She wiped her hands half-heartedly against her shorts, but her fingers could not help drifting back to the rough bark of the sycamore. She traced the carved heart, committing its jagged lines to her brain, trying to etch John B.'s permanence here now into her very skin.  Then, she closed her eyes, and for the briefest of moments, it felt like he was there. The Routledge son with the hickory warm eyes.

The voices of the Pogues called out from the porch.

It was time to go.

And so, with a final glance at the sycamore tree, Willa Deveraux turned away, and walked back toward the Chateau, toward her friends, leaving behind the first-ever completed letter she wrote—and the first-ever boy who had been worth sending it to.

~~~~~~~~~~

and that is the end of season one.

(kind of).

part two of a two-parter update coming in a few hours. then it will really be the end.

anywayysssssssss wow, i did it. i really did it. why am i crying.

i hope you all have enjoyed willa's journey through this first season. she's done so much growing. i was going back through the chapters and quite literally i weeped realizing willa said she would never understand the pogues and the pogues would never understand here. and now here they all are.

what's been your favorite part of the journey? i'd love to talk about it!

i also feel like so much happened this chapter i can barely process it myself so i have no idea how you all are doing. maren and hudson were tough critics to break down, but i hope you enjoyed each of their interactions with willa, our precious caged bird for a short while. i also, ALSO, quite subtly starting to play with the idea of willa being an unreliable narrator??? because??? why not?? i mean, do you think maren and hudson are as cruel as willa believes them to be? i'd love to hear your thoughts on the deveraux dynamics.

in other news, please look at these gifs i strictly used when willa was having her separate interactions with her family members in her bedroom.

willa vs. maren:

willa vs. hudson:

she is so damn beautiful.

(hudson didn't stand a chance with those puppy-dog eyes).

also. we must talk about the elephant in the room. willa and jj. i must hear your thoughts. i had a vision when i began their conversation, but wow, did they end up dragging me in their direction instead. isn't that so fun???

and now, to close this author's note, thank you all again so, so, so much for loving willa. for sticking with this story. i gave up on it for a long time, but now my love for it is so immense, i genuinely think about it every day. and it's really only the introduction, guys. ONLY PART ONE!! willa still has so much to go through and grow through. what are you hoping to see from her in the future? in season two?? in season three?? in season four??

as always, i would love, love, LOVE to hear your thoughts on this chapter, on this book in general.  it's the comments and feedback i receive that make me feel i'm doing this story justice.  it also gives me a chance to connect more with you guys! i seriously love talking about my characters so, so much.  so, please consider leaving a comment!  even if it's just a tiny thing--it's always appreciated! xx

stay safe and well.

--B.