[ xxxix. lost and found ]

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SURVIVE THE NIGHT.  SURVIVE the night.  Survive the night.

The words looped haphazardly in Willa Deveraux's head, like a scratched, shrill record she could not turn off. Only a few hours had passed since she and the Pogues had made the impossible choice to abandon John B. on the side of the road.  However, the unknown that persisted within his new absence stretched endlessly, as if days were slipping by instead of hours.  With cell towers still down—thanks to Hurricane Agatha—the teens were all forced into total radio silence. No check-ins. No updates. No assurances.

The only indication that John B. had not been caught yet was the parade of police cruisers still combing the midnight streets of Kildare. They roamed like sharks in dark waters, circling for a teenage boy in a bloodstained light red jacket.

Willa shoved said jacket deeper under her seat.

Survive the night.  Survive the night.  Survive the night.

How hard could that possibly be?

Given that Willa, Kiara, Pope, and JJ were about to infiltrate the Cameron estate—home to killers, liars, and everything else that thrived in rot . . .

Pretty damn hard, apparently.

Nearly all of the Figure Eight was on lockdown by now, and Ward Cameron's mansion was no exception. Bitterly, Willa imagined him playing the role of the devoted father, barricading his family inside to shield them from a supposed deranged murderer. But even she suspected, deep down, that Ward's nerves were shot. It would only take one mistake—one smear of blood he had missed in a rushed cleanup, one slip of the tongue from his daughter—and the carefully laid foundation of his lies would crumble.

Sarah was the key to such devastation.

She was the reason Willa and the Pogues were even on the Cameron property now, risking everything in the dead of night, unbeknownst to even John B. had been ordered to stay away.

Nonetheless, Pope had again argued vehemently against the plan, swearing that Sarah would never betray her brother. But Kiara, JJ, and Willa had overruled him. They had to take the chance. Even twenty seconds with Sarah could tip the scales—enough to know where her loyalties lay. Enough to get justice.

The plan was madness, yes. But madness was all the desperate friends had left.

"What's the plan again? Someone run me through it one more time before we go in there and all get killed."

Pope was jittery, to say the least; his paranoia still peaked from his poorly timed smoke session. Once more, he currently sat in the passenger seat of Kiara's dented SUV, his chin propped on his hand as he stared out at the Cameron mansion. Willa followed his gaze from the backseat. The massive house was an opulent beacon in the pitch-black night, but beyond it, the surrounding grounds were swallowed in darkness so complete that Willa could not see where the shadows ended, and the estate began.

"You cause a distraction," Kiara informed from the driver's seat. Despite the cool summer night, there was a sheen of nervous sweat on her caramel skin. "Something big. Something loud. Enough to get Ward and Rose outside. Maybe even Rafe, if he's there."

"Meanwhile, you're doing what, exactly?"

Kiara glanced toward the backseat, her auburn eyes catching sage green. "Willa and I will climb the balcony to Sarah's window," she answered evenly, though there was the slightest tremor in her voice.

Willa swallowed hard. She tried to nod in response, to show she was ready. They were really going to do this.

Sneaking up to the house? That would be the easy part. But scaling it? That was something else entirely.

It was not the height that scared her. She had climbed to her own bedroom window more times than she could count back in middle school, sneaking in and out under her parents' noses. But after eventually getting caught one too many times, they had moved her to a different bedroom, far from the tempting awning that had made her escapades possible. They blamed the switch on "practicality," saying her old room was perfect for the nursery they needed for her incoming baby sister, Rayne.

Yet even at only twelve years of age, Willa had known the truth: Maren and Alden had seen the fire in her and wanted to snuff it out.

It had not worked.  Challenges and disobedience had always been her thing.

But this—this!—was not sneaking out for a midnight surf or a laid-back Boneyard party, Willa had to remind herself.  What waited for her and Kiara on the top of that balcony might be far worse than falling.

"You're sure you know which room is hers?" Pope wondered.  At this rate, his doubt practically spoke her own thoughts aloud.

"Unless she's changed it in the last year, yeah," Kiara replied.

In the darkness of the car, Willa heard Pope swallow audibly. "And you're sure this is a good idea?"

This time, Willa found her voice. She needed to believe it herself as much as the Heyward boy needed convincing. "It's the only idea we've got," she assured. "We can't exactly knock on the front door. We climb up, get Sarah out, and run. We bring her to the police station. She clears John B.'s name. She's the only one who can."

"Willa, you're the one who said Ward probably has her locked down," Pope countered.

"And if Ward's anything like my parents, that means she's locked in her room," Willa insisted. "He won't want her panicking or running, so he'll try to make her feel like things are normal. But she knows it isn't, so she'll isolate herself. He'll eventually let her. That's where we come in. We slip in when he isn't looking."

"Ward has to think that John B. will be coming," Pope argued.

"John B., sure," Willa agreed.  "But not us."

Pope groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he twisted in his seat to glare at her. "You do realize Plumb and Thomas saw us in the earlier car, right?  They've probably got the whole island looking for us too. That includes Ward."

Before Willa could respond, JJ moved in her peripheral vision. He had been unusually silent through the entire exchange, but now he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "They're still looking for us in the Cut," he interrupted. "Not here. Not on Cameron's doorstep. It's the last place they'd think to look—because of how stupid it is."

Pope rolled his eyes, exasperated.  "Shut up, JJ."

"Hey, don't hate the lookout."

"I can hate the lookout when the lookout's doing jack shit."

"That's not true," JJ exclaimed, his bright blue eyes widening in indignation. "What if Ward's got patrols on the house? Seems like the kind of guy to do that. Someone's got to keep an eye on them."

Willa nearly scoffed at the absurdity.  Patrols?  If Ward had guards, they would not have gotten this close without being spotted. The SUV was practically parked on the edge of the Cameron property. Only a low stone fence separated them from the mansion now, and its presence was more aesthetic than practical—designed to showcase wealth, not security.

"We don't have time for this," Willa grumbled. She glanced at Kiara and Pope. "This is probably our last shot. If we're compromised, we bail. If we get separated, meet at the dump."

"You even know where that is, kook bait?"

Heat flared in Willa's cheeks at the unnecessary insult. Lately, most of JJ's comments were like that—sharp, unprovoked, and utterly infuriating.  Stubbornly, she wanted to snap back, to cut him down with a jab of her own.  For a selfish moment, she even imagined sending JJ into the Cameron fray alone, just to watch him crash and burn.  But no.  She could not trust him to handle this, not when failure meant Sarah staying trapped under Ward's thumb.  Their best chance was leaving the firecracker exactly where he belonged—in the car, far from anything he could set ablaze.

Willa gritted her teeth, forcing her focus back to Kiara and Pope. "If we get separated, head to the dump on foot," she reiterated, deliberately ignoring the blonde teen. "Since JJ will still have the car, let him figure out how to find his dad's boat on his own."

JJ let out a low chuckle, mockingly clutching his chest. "Ouch."

And just like that, Willa snapped.

For two days, she had managed to sidestep direct conversation with JJ, convincing herself it was the safer, smarter option. But now?  Now his very existence beside her felt like a burr lodged under her skin, and every callous smirk, every taunted glance he threw her way, only twisted it deeper into her blood. She could not take his snide attitude anymore.  God, he made her very veins burn.  He made them blister.

She whirled on him, her knees nearly smacking his given how close they now were in the backseat. "You want to be involved, JJ?" Her voice was low; the kind that carried even more force than shouting. She hoped the anger curling her lips into a snarl was plain to see. "Then act like it. Be something more than just a lookout."

Her glare bored into his, daring him to wipe that cocky grin off his face—no, daring him to let her wipe it off for him. She wanted to see him flinch, to see some crack in the indifference he wore so well.

"Try not to light another joint while we're gone," she added venomously. "The smell's a sure way to get Ward's imaginary patrols on your ass."

She did not wait for a response. Her hand shot out to the car door, and she flung it open with enough force to make the SUV rock slightly. The cool night air swept in as she stepped out, slamming the door behind her with a bang.  Around the front of the vehicle she went, her shoes slapping against the pavement as she headed for the stone fence. As she walked, she aggressively tossed her curls up into a tight knot at the top of her steaming head.  The whole time, she did not spare a backward glance, even as she heard Kiara and Pope now scrambling to catch up. They were quickly realizing what she had already brashly decided: the plan was happening—with or without them.

Willa leaped, her fingers latching onto the rough edge of the wall as her shoes scraped against the stone. Gritting her teeth, she kicked off, using the momentum to hoist herself up until she straddled the top.

Beyond the wall, the Cameron mansion rose like a cathedral to excess.  Massive, pristine, and unnervingly quiet, it loomed against the dark sky, its pale walls glowing under the flood of golden light pouring from its many windows. The marble-like exterior gleamed with an almost ethereal perfection, the sleek balconies and trimmed lawns only adding to its near unapproachable grandeur.  Yet, the smaller outbuildings at the fringes of the property—the darkened garages, the shadowy maintenance sheds—seemed forgotten, as if the mansion itself drained all the life from its surroundings.  Briefly, Willa wondered how many generators Ward was burning through to keep his fortress stable.

Eventually, Willa's careful eyes settled on the mansion's second-floor, wrap-around balcony. The columns supporting it were flawless, carved like works of art, but Willa dismissed them immediately for her climb. Too slippery. Too loud.  But the vines crawling up the house . . . clearly ornamental, yes . . . but dense enough to provide her a handhold. If they could bear her weight, she could reach Sarah's window without a sound.

Drawing a deep breath to steady her nerves, Willa dropped down onto the other side of the wall. A second later, Kiara and Pope landed silently beside her.  Willa started forward, not looking back. She did not have to. Her friends knew their roles, and she expected them to hold to them.

But then Kiara spoke.

"Are you and JJ . . . good?"

The words stopped Willa mid-stride. Slowly, she turned halfway, her brows knitting together.  "What?"

Kiara shrugged, clearly uneasy.  But unwilling to drop the subject all the same. "You just seem . . . I don't know, more hostile than usual. Both of you."

Willa fought the urge to roll her eyes. She did not want to do this.  Not now, not here.

"We're fine," she said curtly. "I'm just fed up with his childish bullshit today."

It was not the whole truth, but it was enough.

Kiara tilted her head, unimpressed. "As opposed to other days?"

"Yes, as opposed to other days!" Willa retorted, turning around fully this time. Her voice rose despite herself, full of annoyance and stress. "Look around, Kie. This isn't the time for jokes. JJ needs to grow up, or he'll still be laughing when Shoupe hauls John B. off to jail!"

Kiara instinctively stepped back.  

Immediately thereafter, a wave of regret crashed over Willa.  She had not meant to lash out—not at Kiara, anyway, who was only trying to help.

To her credit, the Carrera daughter recovered quickly. She squared her shoulders and straightened her posture again, her expression softening just enough to let Willa know she was not taking it personally. "That's not going to happen," she said firmly.

Willa exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to calm down. "I know.  But only if we," she motioned between herself, Kiara, and Pope—purposefully excluding JJ from the equation, "do this. Now let's go."  Then she turned and continued toward the house.

The three teenagers moved like shadows across the vast expanse of the Cameron estate's dark lawn. The grass was cool and damp beneath their feet, muffling their footsteps as they crept forward.  No matter, despite the aid in their approach, every sense in Willa's body felt heightened.  Her focus swept over the massive structure in front of them, evaluating every detail. What could help them?  What could get them killed?

As her gaze briefly flicked toward the second floor, she spotted a window.  The light within was dim, but it caught her attention and held it fast. Was it an office? A bedroom?  She could not tell from down here.  But then—suddenly, the kernel of an idea took root.

"Hold up," she whispered, throwing out her arm to stop the two teens behind her.

"What's wrong?" Kiara asked in a hushed voice.

Willa's eyes remained locked on the window. "Should one of us go look for the gun?" she prompted.

"What?" Pope hissed, louder than he should have. "No way!"

Willa turned to face them. "If Sarah won't confess—or can't—we need another backup plan."

"The backup plan," Kiara interjected, "is getting John B. off the island."

"Besides," Pope added, his tone insistent, "there's no way the gun is still in the house. Ward's probably already destroyed the evidence."

Fuck.

Willa bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to argue.  She wanted to push them into seeing the sense in her plan—or at least the desperation behind it. But deep down, she knew Pope was probably right. Ward Cameron did not strike her as the type to leave loose ends, and any murder weapon that could implicate him in Peterkin's death was undoubtedly long gone.

"Fine," she muttered, cursing under her breath. "Scaling a three-story mansion it is."

Kiara let out a quiet sigh of relief. "Good. Let's go."

They continued toward the mansion, slipping into the deeper shadows that pooled beneath its towering facade.  Tiptoeing to the wall beneath the second-floor balcony, Willa scanned the smooth exterior for the cluster of vines she had spotted earlier.  "There, that's our way up," she breathed to Kiara, pointing toward a thick cluster of greenery curling upward.

Pope followed the girls' lines of sight. "You're seriously trusting decorative vines to hold you?"

"You got a better idea?" Willa threw over her shoulder.  She stepped forward and gave the nearest vine a hard tug, testing its grip against the wall.

Kiara stepped up to Willa's other side.  "Pope, you're on distraction duty, anyway," she reminded, jerking her head toward the backyard. "Go."

He muttered something under his breath—something undoubtedly sarcastic—but nodded.  Then he slipped around the side of the mansion and disappeared into the dark.

Elsewhere, Willa gave the vine another tug. It did not give way beneath her hands. Good enough. She tightened her hold and took a steadying breath, the taste of adrenaline growing sharp on her tongue.  Then she began to climb.

The brambly texture of the vines bit into her palms as she hauled herself upward. Almost immediately, her muscles screamed in protest. Her forearms burned.  Sweat slicked her palms, but she forced herself to keep moving. Each time her foot found a knotted cluster to push off from, she paused just long enough to gulp a ragged breath before climbing higher.

She dared a glance downward. Below her, Kiara had begun her ascent, moving steadily but cautiously. Above her, the balcony was tantalizingly close now, just a few more feet.  Willa reached for its edge with trembling fingers. Blindly, her hand found purchase, and she let out a grunt as she hoisted herself over.

She promptly collapsed onto the cold surface.  Seconds later, Kiara hauled herself over and rolled onto her side with a stifled groan.  Side-by-side the two of them laid there, staring up at the night sky, chests heaving, the only sounds being their entwined labored breathing.

Five seconds. That was all Willa allowed herself before she pushed to her knees.  Her eyes trailed across the expansive balcony and its many windows.

"Which one's Sarah's?" she whispered.

Kiara sat up and silently motioned toward the far end of the platform.  Willa followed her lead, each step slow and calculated.  They were so exposed out here.  Any noise, any misstep, and Ward could be on them.

When they reached Sarah's window, Willa dropped into a low crouch, her eyes narrowing as she peered inside.  Then, she exhaled a shallow breath of relief.  The Cameron princess was exactly where she had suspected she would be.

Inside, Sarah sat on the edge of her plush bed, her shoulders hunched, a pen gripped tightly in her right hand. She scribbled furiously into a journal.  Her disheveled blonde hair fell in loose strands around her face, which was streaked with tears that glimmered faintly in the warm light of the bedside lamp.

Willa's face fell in somber recognition.  The sight was all too familiar—like staring into a reflection of her own worst nights.  She had been here before: curled up on her bed, her journal the only outlet for words she could not say aloud.  She knew what it felt like to pour yourself into the pages, hoping it might somehow make the pain bearable.

Unfortunately, their pain—all the teenagers' pain—was far from over.

Kiara glanced between Willa and the girl inside. Understanding the cue, the Deveraux daughter reached out and tapped softly on the glass.

Sarah jumped, her pen clattering onto the hardwood floor. Her wide, tear-filled eyes snapped toward the window, and for a moment, she was petrified.  Her lips parted, breath hitching, as though bracing for the worst.  Then recognition flickered, and her expression crumbled into something softer.  Disbelief.

"You're here," she whispered, her voice muffled but clear enough to hear through the wall between them.

Sarah scrambled off the bed and crossed the bedroom in an instant. The way her shoulders sagged made Willa's nerves momentarily melt away, too.  For the first time that night, it felt like something might actually go right.

But then Kiara tried to open the window.

It did not budge.

Kiara's frown deepened as she jiggled the frame harder. Sarah tried from her side as well, her hands pushing against the edges, but the frame would not move an inch. Finally, Willa knelt closer, running her fingers along the seams.  It was sealed tight.  Whether it was by design, or some precaution Ward had taken, she could not tell.

"Should we break it?" Willa asked.

"No." Kiara shook her head. "Too loud."

Fresh frustration sparked in Willa's still-tight chest. She glanced back at Sarah, whose anxious gaze darted between them.

"You have to leave me," she said suddenly.

Willa shook her head immediately. "We can't. We need you to clear John B.'s name."

"What?" Sarah's brows furrowed in concern. "What happened to John B.?"

Willa's stomach dropped.  She exchanged a tense, wide-eyed glance with Kiara. 

Sarah did not know. She had no idea at all about what had happened since Peterkin's murder.  What had Ward and Rafe truly done upon leaving the airstrip?

Kiara dug into her back pocket, and pulled out the crumpled, smudged WANTED poster Pope had snagged from the ferry terminal.  Without a word, she pressed it against the glass, her jaw tight.  Instantly, the color drained from Sarah's flushed face as she leaned closer, her eyes darting over the bold letters. Wanted for First-Degree Murder.

"No," she whispered, her breath fogging the glass as the lone, devasting word fell from her lips.  Fresh tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes. "No. That's not . . . That can't . . ."

"Are you in on it?" Kiara asked abruptly.

Willa's head snapped toward her, surprised. "Kie, what—"

Kiara ignored her, locking eyes with Sarah. "Did you know?  Are you part of this?"

The girl on the other side of the window flinched. "Did you think I was?" she asked, her voice breaking.

Willa's throat tightened painfully. "No," she interjected softly.  How many times had she already defended the Cameron princess in a matter of days?  A week ago, she might have doubted her, too, might have even believed her capable of being involved.  But not now.  Like Willa, Sarah Cameron had already earned her place amongst the Pogues.  "No, Sarah. We know you're not.  Right, Kie?"

Kiara's fierce, accusing glaze flickered.  Then a sigh slipped past her lips, unsteady, as though she was exhaling all the suspicion that she had no left strength to hold. "Right," she murmured at last, her voice smaller.  She sounded almost ashamed, almost apologetic.

Through the haze of tears, Sarah's lips quivered into the faintest, trembling smile. Slowly, she lifted her hands, palms outstretched and pressed them flat against the glass. The motion was tentative, as if seeking an anchor, but Willa did not hesitate to fill that role. She raised her right hand to meet Sarah's, her own fingers splaying against the cold windowpane. Kiara followed, and the three of them sat there in silence, physically separated but still emotionally connected, as if that sliver of contact could hold their friendship, their failing world, together.  It was not enough to bide them—not even close—but it was all they had.

And then—

"SARAH!"

Ward's roaring voice thundered through the mansion.  It was filled with an unholy mix of fury and fear, and all three girls flinched violently at the sound. Sarah jerked her hands away from the glass first, her body going rigid. Her wide, panicked eyes snapped toward her locked bedroom door, likely hearing his maddening approach, and then she looked back to her friends on the balcony.

"Go!" she urged quietly. "Get out of here!"

Willa's mind screamed against every instinct to obey. She opened her mouth, wanting to beg Sarah to come with them, to damn the window and smash it to pieces, to demand that she find a way to escape.  But Sarah was already moving, running back toward her bed, preparing to confront the wrathful father barreling up the stairs toward her.

Kiara grabbed Willa's arm and pulled her away from the window. "We have to go," she said sharply.  Willa let Kiara drag her back across the balcony, even as her gaze lingered on the window, even as the distance grew. She hated leaving Sarah behind again, hated that she could not do more.

By the time she turned her attention fully back to the rest of the sprawling Cameron property, Pope was already climbing back over the stone wall in the yard below. The glow spilling from the mansion outlined his figure as he moved quickly, his head low, darting toward the waiting SUV where JJ was undoubtedly sulking at his self-proclaimed lookout post.

Willa swung her leg over the balcony railing and grasped at the vines below as if her life depended on it.  She supposed it did. The climb down was somehow more harrowing than the climb up.  Her legs trembled with every blind foothold she found, the strain of holding herself steady sending lightning jolts through her arms. Once, her grip slipped. She gasped as her foot slid out from under her, the brief, gut-wrenching free fall jerking her heart into her throat. At the last second, she caught herself and she cursed under her breath, forcing herself to refocus.

When her feet finally hit the ground, she stumbled back a step and inhaled deeply as Kiara landed beside her. They bolted across the yard, and Willa did not dare look back.  Her lungs burned, but the thought of Ward Cameron storming onto the balcony at any moment, gun in hand, barrel aimed squarely at her back, kept her legs moving.

When they reached the wall, Kiara scaled it in record time, and Willa followed, her fingers scraping against the stone as she hauled herself up and over.  Then, they sprinted toward the idly parked SUV.

Only once Willa yanked the car's back door open and threw herself inside, only once Kiara slammed the vehicle into gear and they tore away into the night, did she become overwhelmed by the severity of the Pogues' new grave situation.

Their plan had failed, she accepted miserably.

And with it, their last real chance to clear John B.'s name.

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GIVEN THAT IT WAS only a little after midnight when Willa, Kiara, Pope, and JJ slipped away from the Cameron property undetected, they did not go straight to the dump.  They did not suspect John B. would be there yet.  After all, waiting in one spot too long left too great a chance of being discovered.

Instead, with their group of four still intact, they turned their focus to Luke Maybank's boat, but JJ insisted they would not be able to collect the keys until morning.  In other words, they would not be able to steal the keys until JJ's abusive, pathetic excuse for a father was too far gone in a morning-after alcoholic stupor.

That being said, the situation at hand still left them with a new problem: where to hole up until dawn.

Home was not an option for any of the teenagers, so The Wreck, the Carreras' family-owned restaurant, became their next best bet.

At one in the morning, they made the cautious drive back to the middle ground of Kildare Island, steering clear of patrolling cops and praying no one noticed their marked vehicle from the ferry terminal catastrophe.  When they pulled into the restaurant's dark and deserted parking lot nearly fifteen minutes later, Kiara exhaled a shaky sigh of relief.  They had made it.  And, for once, her parents were not inside—even despite the late hour—poring over finances and trying to salvage their dwindling margins.

Willa and the Pogues had finally caught a break.  They had a quiet restaurant to hunker down in.  They had scraps of food and beverages to nibble through.  They had comfy, cushioned booths to crash on.

Willa might have tried to help herself with the little delicacies, but she quickly discovered that there was no comfort to be found for her.  Every time she closed her eyes, she saw John B. again, bathed in Peterkin's blood.  Sleep was going to be entirely impossible.

So she volunteered to keep watch instead.

The job was simple enough. According to Kiara, The Wreck's back door was notoriously unreliable—its rickety knob sometimes gave way with the wind off the marsh—so she pulled up a chair near it and let the hours slip by as the summer night gave way to pale streaks of dawn.

By her estimate, it was nearly six now. Five long, lonely hours had passed in the quiet hum of her thoughts.  Behind her, the others were splayed out across the booths, using stacks of white napkins for pillows.  Pope's rhythmic snores mingled with Kiara's quiet breathing, while JJ slept like a grenade ready to detonate, his body somehow coiled and guarded—even in a slumped form. Twice, Willa had turned in her seat to check on all of them, and each time she was relieved to find them exactly where they had been before.

But now, as she glanced back for a third time, she froze. Only two bodies lay curled in the booths. Kiara and Pope still slept as soundly as they could, their breathing undisturbed.  She frowned.  Where was—

The creak of a chair beside her sent her spinning.

"Morning, sunshine."

There he was.

JJ settled into the seat next to her, his blonde hair sticking up in sleepy tufts, a backward red ball cap barely restraining the unruliness.  Willa nearly rolled her eyes at the sight.  Boys and their backward caps. She had roasted John B. for it once, and JJ was no different. In fact, roasting him sounded particularly appealing, given how furious she still was about everything.

"I didn't hear you wake up," Willa said stiffly, more a statement than a greeting. After the night before, she supposed that her vow of silence against the Maybank boy had already gone out the window.

"I didn't want you to," He replied casually.

Upon feeling his stare go to the side of her face, Willa turned away, her gaze fixing to the horizon. Outside, the sunrise painted the sky in soft blues, oranges, and pinks. It was beautiful, but she could not bring herself to enjoy it.

"You can go back to sleep," she muttered, eyes still on the window.

JJ chuckled.  "What, that eager to get rid of me?"

"Yes," Willa shot back evenly. "Doesn't feel so good, does it?"

They both knew exactly what she meant.  Within their catalyst of destruction, they both remembered his disgusting house, his rampant screaming, his heartless demands for her to leave him alone forever.  They both remembered her arm, now unknowingly marked by the bites of his angry fingertips, the desperate, heartbroken tears that rolled down her cheeks as she futilely tried to hold onto him—as she tried to hold onto her friend.  Because all she had wanted then was to make sure he was never alone again.  And now, here they were.

JJ scoffed softly. "You're overreacting."

This time, Willa met his edge.  She snapped her head to him, her eyes blazing. "I'm not doing this again."

"Doing what?"

"I'm not going to sit here and let you treat me like trash because you think it's deserved," she growled. "You don't know me, JJ. And honestly? I don't want you to know me either. Guess we've got that in common."

JJ's smirk faltered, cracking ever so slightly.  But Willa could not stop talking.  Not when she had held this in for too long.

"I get that you have a shitty life, and I'm sorry for that.  I really am," she said. "Say the word, and I'll do something to get you out of it. But I won't do it until you ask—until you let me cross that boundary.  And I sure as hell won't do it because I think you're some sob story that needs fixing. I'd do it because I think you deserve better. Because, despite everything, I respect you." She paused. "Or at least, I thought I did."

JJ's eyes narrowed.  "Despite everything?  What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Of course, that was what he latched onto. Out of everything, he went straight for the one fragment he could twist.

"It means," Willa fumed, "you've never apologized for the Boneyard. For waving that gun around like you had any idea what you were doing. For terrifying my little brother. For terrifying me.  At this point, I don't even expect an apology anymore. I know who you are, JJ. I've accepted it. But—" She exhaled shortly, the words catching in her throat before she forced them out. "But I wish you'd realize that there are other people who get fucked over by your choices.  You don't just hurt yourself. You hurt other people. People who care about you. People who try to help you. You hurt me. And I've decided I'm not going to let myself be part of it anymore."

"Kook bait—" he started.

"Stop calling me that!" Willa hissed.  Her eyes flicked to the booths where the others still slept, her irritation flaring hotter at the thought of waking them. "I mean it. It's not funny. It's not cute. And while you're at it? Stay away from me. You know I'm only here because of John B. Once he's gone, I'm gone. You can keep yourself occupied for a couple more hours, can't you? Find someone else to torment."

"Just wait—"

"No," Willa cut him off again. "Don't say anything. Just agree with me for once, please.  We'll get along long enough to stay alive, and then I'm gone. You will never see me again. Okay?"

JJ's voice rose too, rough and strained. "Willa, will you let me fucking speak?"

She did not want to.  It was as simple as that.  It was as terrifying as that.  Because she did not want to listen to him poison her words.  She did not want him to throw them back at her like knives and make her feel small again.  He did it so easily.  But against her better judgment, she forced herself to relent.

"Fine," she said coldly. "Speak."

JJ's expression hardened, but behind it, she caught something else.  A flicker.  Hurt?  It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but it left her chest tight.

"I don't want you to go when this is all over," he said.

Willa blinked.  Then she scoffed and nearly laughed at herself.  "Sure.  So you can—"

"I'm serious," JJ claimed. His jaw clenched, and he hesitated, like the words he needed to say next were foreign to him. "I don't . . . I don't know why I freaked out on you the other day." He looked away, as if that were still not the entire truth, though.  "You're right. You didn't deserve it."

"I know I didn't," she fired back. "I was just trying to help you, JJ. I was just trying to be there for you."

His lips twisted into something like a grimace.  It was another aspect of JJ's character that Willa was coming to hate because it felt like armor.  Armor he always, always instinctively put up when it came to her.  And she did not understand why he did it.

"You always are, aren't you?" he muttered.

Willa's jaw tightened, refusing to take the bait. But her ensuing silence was not empty. Her blood thrummed, pulsing through her veins like lava—hot and slow. It was not the wildfire fury JJ usually dragged out of her, the kind that burned fast and bright.  Because it was not just anger between them now.  It was hurt.  It was confusion.  It was two people who did not know how to stop pulling each other apart, even as they still adamantly clung to the pieces left behind.

Willa and JJ together were unforgiving.  They were unrelenting.  They were not soft or safe but sharp-edged and searing. Their very breaths demanded reverence.  Their very souls crafted awe and terror in equal measure.

And Willa felt that fear now, rising like smoke inside her.  It sustained her, kept her alive, even when she hated it. Even when it was not hers alone anymore. It had intertwined with JJ's and now fed off the dark spaces that existed between them.  It thrived not just in the firestorms of their fights or their heated tempers but in the quiet devastation of the truths they could not seem to bring themselves to say to each other.

Still, Willa could not help but wonder if this—this impossible, volatile thing between herself and the Maybank boy—was all they would ever be. Two stubborn, broken teenagers, too proud to apologize, too consumed by their twin-flamed rage to see past it.

But maybe JJ wondered about their future, too. Maybe that was why he finally broke the silence again.

He spoke almost carefully now. "I never thanked you, you know."

Willa barely moved.  She did not trust the shift in his tone. "For what?" she asked warily. For following him to the Cut that day? For choosing him over everything and everyone else?

"For offering to pay my bail," he said simply.

Her heart stumbled in her chest.  Oh. That.  The morning of the Midsummers Ball, when he had been arrested for taking the fall for Pope. She had promised him she would find a way to get him out, swore it to him when Deputy Shoupe shoved him into the back of the cop car. 

Even if she had not made that promise, JJ had still taken the blame so easily.  He did not care about rescue then.  He had sacrificed himself without hesitation, chosen someone else above himself without a second thought.

Was that not what Willa had done for him, too? Followed him home, ignored the obvious risks, because she understood that he was worth it? Because somehow, they were more alike than she had ever wanted to admit?

"I would have done it," she finally whispered.

"I know you would've," JJ agreed softly. "I hope one day I can do the same for you."

"I don't."

"What? Why?"

She tilted her head, meeting his stare head-on. Sage green locked with electric blue, and this time, it held.  They held.  "Because I hope we never end up in a situation like that again,"

A wry, almost rueful smile curled at the corners of JJ's lips. "The day's still young," he pointed out, glancing once more toward the waking world beyond The Wreck's backdoor.  In the distance, the faint wail of a police siren rose and fell again.  It was probably not for them—probably—but the possibility otherwise still haunted the backs of their young, guarded minds.  "But just know—" He leaned in slightly, nearly knocking into Willa, and winked at her. "I've got your back. Just in case."

Against the Deveraux daughter's better judgment, she felt a distant tug at her lips. Or maybe it was not against anything at all anymore. Maybe she had instincts of her own when it came to surviving JJ Maybank.  Because in an instant, in a heartbeat, he could make her feel joy in the same breath he made her feel rage.

"Just in case," she murmured in reply.

The silence between them crept back in, but no longer was it . . . hostile, like Kiara had described earlier.  Willa leaned back in her chair, her arms crossing her chest. Beside her, JJ shifted slightly in his seat, but he did not leave either.

Several quiet minutes passed while they continued to watch the sun rise higher over the marsh.  They were strange minutes, Willa would admit. Unusual for them—but almost . . . comfortable.  Nevertheless, she still found herself inwardly waiting for the other shoe to drop.  The snarky comment, the careless laugh, the one thing that would shatter the fragile peace between them. But it did not come. Instead, JJ surprised her.

His hand dipped into his pocket, the movement so casual it barely registered to Willa at first. But then he pulled out something small and glinting in the dawn's light. He fiddled with it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, before finally holding it out to her.

"I think this belongs to you."

Willa blinked, her attention snapping to the object in his palm. A thick silver band, intricately designed to resemble a fallen magnolia leaf.  Her breath caught.

Her ring.

For a moment, she could only stare at it. She had not seen the scrap of jewelry since that night she had fled the Boneyard. She had realized almost instantly that it was gone, probably lost in the scuffle of knocking the gun from JJ's disastrous hands. Afterward, she had assumed it had disappeared forever, swallowed by the sand and the dark, along with so much else from that night.  Yet here it was.

"You've had it this whole time?" Willa questioned softly.  There was no anger in her tone.  Only genuine surprise—and awe.

JJ's blue eyes did not quite meet hers. "I kind of forgot about it, to be honest."

Willa hesitated before extending her hand, palm up. As he dropped the tiny ring into it, her gaze snagged on her own battered knuckles.  Dark bruises still mingled with tiny, reddened cuts from when she had punched Rafe—and then a mirror—and then Barry.  All in only a matter of days.   Her thumb, where the ring should have rightfully sat, was still so swollen from so much damage inflicted. She bit back a wave of embarrassment.

"It won't fit," she admitted.

JJ's stare followed hers to her injured, ringless hands and then lingered on the bruises like he could see every hit, every ache she carried.  His expression softened.  He glanced at the ring in her hand and, without a word, plucked it from her palm. 

He slid it onto his own pinkie finger—the only one it would fit.

Willa raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Keeping it safe," JJ answered coyly. "You know, until you're ready to wear it again."

A strange warmth spread through her chest. She huffed, rolling her eyes to cover it. "Don't lose it.  My dad personally designed that for me."

"Doesn't look half bad on me, does it?" he said, holding it up for her to see. "Wearing an Alden Deveraux original. I pawn this, and I could probably pay off every debt I've got. Keep the lights on for years."

Willa let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. "Don't push your luck."

JJ grinned. "Too late."

The Deveraux daughter watched the Maybank son a moment longer, her calming gaze flickering between her ring and the boy wearing it. There was something absurdly childish about the way he admired it—like a kid holding a stolen trophy. Yet it felt oddly precious, too.  A crack of levity had broken through the tension between them—finally.  Even if it was still not enough to shatter it entirely.

Even so, as long as JJ kept Willa's ring on his hand they were unknowingly tethered together. No matter how much they argued, no matter how much they hated each other ninety-five percent of the time, there was no walking away. Not for Willa, at least.  Not without her ring.

The faint scuffle of movement behind them snapped them both back to attention, and their heads turned in sync. Pope and Kiara were crawling out from their booths, their faces weary and disheveled. Even in the low light, Willa could see Pope's eyes were groggy and bloodshot, while Kiara's tangled waves framed her face wildly.

"No sign of John B.?" the Carrera daughter asked tiredly.  She did not seem surprised to find the two hotheads of their group sitting practically shoulder-to-shoulder in the dark of her parents' restaurant.

"No," JJ disclosed, lowering his arms.  His answer sounded like a mutter, the playful spark in his expression vanishing like a blown-out candle.  It seemed—for a brief second—beside Willa, he had managed to forget their current situation. Now, it was all crashing back upon their shoulders. "What if he's been pinched?"

"They wouldn't still be patrolling if they caught him," Pope reassured, edging toward the back door. He cracked it open just enough to poke his head outside, his posture tense as he scanned the nearby streets.  Still no visible cop cars.  Only their piercing sirens.

"You're the one who said they're probably looking for us now, too," Kiara reminded over his shoulder.  "What if those cop cars are for us?"

Pope did not answer right away. Whatever he saw—or did not see—seemed to satisfy him.  He stepped back inside and closed the door with a quiet click.  He nudged the handle for good measure, ensuring it stayed shut, and then his measured gaze returned to the others. Already, Willa could see the gears turning, another plan already forming behind his calculated expression.

"Well, if we're going to be outlaws, we might as well keep helping John B.," he said decisively.  "I'm going to go get gas for the boat."

"Where?" Willa questioned.

"The only place it's free," Pope answered as he crossed the massive dining room. He grabbed his backpack from the bar; he was the only one of them who had thought ahead to bring one from the Chateau the day before. "My dad's shop."

"I'll back you up," she offered instantly, rising to her feet.

Pope frowned.  "You don't have to do that."

"You planning to carry three tanks and hold onto the handlebars at the same time?" Willa challenged.  When he did not respond, clearly beaten by her logic, she smartly added, "I'm coming, Pope. End of discussion."

He pressed his lips into a tight line but nodded. "All right. Let's go."

"Be careful," Kiara pleaded as she glanced carefully between them.  "Both of you."

"Meet us at the dump's dock at three. Don't be late," Pope instructed her.  He then turned toward the back of the restaurant again, where JJ still sat slouched in his chair, blonde head tipped down while he fidgeted absentmindedly with his lighter.  Perhaps it might have been another orphan in JJ's pocket, once keeping Willa's ring company.  "JJ, is your dirt bike still out back?"

"Yep," JJ replied, eyes never leaving the flame he teased to life. "Take care of her."

With one last nod, Pope swung his bag over his shoulder and headed out the front door. Kiara followed close behind, her voice dropping to a murmur as she spoke to the Heyward boy, words spoken so low now that they could not be made out by the two eavesdropping teenagers left behind.

Willa lingered by the back door, giving them their privacy.  Meanwhile, she could feel JJ's gaze drift naturally toward her, but she refused to meet it.  Her focus had already shifted ahead. The day was still young, after all.  And they had so much left to do. Save John B. Get off the island. Stay alive.

Just as she stepped toward the front door, JJ's hand suddenly grasped her arm. "Wait."

She turned, startled, to find the Maybank boy now standing right behind her. His grip was loose around her wrist, barely there—a ghost of a touch.  Yet it still sent an unexpected chill through her, dredging up the harsh, unwanted memory of his fingers digging into her skin, of ripping her away from his house—and him.  The thought made her jerk her arm free before she could think better of it.

If JJ noticed the recoil, he did not acknowledge it. Instead, his blue eyes darkened as they held hers, narrowing again as though he was searching for something in her. "Are we good now?"

The question was heavier than it had any right to be.  And the answer could have been simple. It should have been. If it were anyone else in the world, Willa thought, it would have been. But she and JJ were never simple.  They were not the kind of people built with the understanding of "good."

Case in point: the little truce Willa and JJ had cobbled together in the shadows of the empty restaurant was already crumbling as the sunlight crept fully back into the room.  Now, Kildare's sunrise revealed every crack they had innocently tried to pretend did not exist, every broken piece they could not ultimately hide.  And as if to shatter it entirely, Willa demanded one last question:

"Have you apologized?"

JJ stiffened.

He had not apologized.  Not for what he had done, for the things he had broken in her and in himself. Despite the peace of their morning, despite everything they had already endured together otherwise, JJ still had not said the fucking words.  The words the Deveraux daughter had chased down like a fool, the ones that had ultimately dragged her into this Royal Merchant mess in the first place.

If JJ had apologized that day on the Chateau steps, all those weeks ago, everything would have been different for Willa.  She would not have busted her knuckles on bathroom mirrors and sneered faces. She would not be scrubbing Sheriff Peterkin's innocent blood off her conscience. She would not be looking over her shoulder, a fugitive for crimes she never truly committed but could not deny either.  If JJ had simply apologized the first time she asked, she would still be an ordinary teenage girl.

But that choice, his refusal, had stolen her life.

Now, they were stuck. Stuck in a limbo of unfinished business. Because until JJ said the words, they could not move forward. Not completely. Not the way Willa needed. Not the way she genuinely wanted.

Suddenly, JJ's lips parted as if to speak.  "I'm so—"

"Don't say it if you don't mean it," Willa interrupted.  Please.  Please do not do that to me.  I can handle your shouts.  I can handle your aggression.  But I cannot handle your lies.

But she could not possibly say any of that. Not aloud. She could not give him even the slightest inch. She could not let him see how much of herself she had already sacrificed for this. So instead, before JJ could try again, before she could watch his kind expression dissolve into something crueler—before she could let herself foolishly believe in something impossible—Willa turned on her heel and pushed out The Wreck's front door after Pope.

She did not look back.

~~~~~~~~~~

willa and jj are the definition of 'one step forward, two steps back.'

and i absolutely love their angst.  even if it's likely killing all of you readers.  but i hope you're enjoying the pain, muahahahah

but also--the ring!!--i love a full circle moment.  even if it's still not full circle.  do you think willa will get the ring back??

anyways, LET'S TALK about willa and jj.  what are you all thinking of their relationship? i'd love, love, love to hear your thoughts on this because currently these two psycho teenagers occupy my mind at least 90% of my day.  i need someone to vent with.

on another note, you might have also noticed that i entirely excluded the 'i love you' awkward reveal between kiara and pope with the inevitable rejection and fighting, and i admit i did it purposely. warning you all now, the brief romance between pope and kie will not be happening in this series. partially because the show didn't do them justice, partially because i hated that they essentially passed kiara along through all the boys, and mainly because i have individual plans for both teens that fall elsewhere romantically. besides, i think there's already enough angst as is. so, yes, anyways, enjoy the flip of the script! there will surely be more script flipping in the future, too!!

again, i would love, love, LOVE to hear your thoughts. it's the comments and feedback i receive that really make me feel like i'm doing this story justice. so, please consider leaving a comment! even if it's just a tiny thing--it's always appreciated.

as always, stay safe and well.

--B.