[ xl. pull the trigger ]

➸➸➸

WILLA DEVERAUX CLUNG TIGHTLY to Pope Heyward's tensed shoulders as they sped down the narrow, uneven road toward the marina. JJ's borrowed dirt bike, which was barely holding itself together Willa quickly came to realize, bounced with every crack and dip in the pavement.  She was lucky she had not fallen off its back yet.

Meanwhile, ahead, the massive sign of Heyward's Seafood came into view, its once-bright painting of a blue marlin now dulled and peeling from years of salt spray and sun. The family-owned business was nestled against the marina's edge, and the air as they approached it was thick with the scent of brine, diesel, and the faint stench of rotting fish.

Willa's eyes darted constantly over her shoulder during the ride over from The Wreck. No Kildare County deputies—no Shoupe, Thomas, or even Plumb awaited them around blind corners. She silently thanked whatever small mercies the morning had spared them. Most of the law enforcement, she guessed, would still be sweeping the upscale neighborhoods of the Figure Eight, maybe even the Point—the farthest, northern tip of the island. The southern Cut would have been combed over by now and likely deemed expendable for the time being.

The sudden screech of poor brakes jolted her forward. She leaned around Pope to catch sight of an empty parking lot. The dirt bike came to a grinding halt, its engine sputtering into silence beneath them. Slowly, Willa loosened her grip on Pope's shoulders and swung her legs off the bike.

Heyward's Seafood was dead. The otherwise popular business's main entry doors were closed, its surrounding windows dark and unwelcoming. Part of Willa felt a pang of guilt; she knew that this place, like so many others, relied on the tourist season to carry it through the lean winter months. Now, with an island-wide curfew and a fugitive manhunt in progress, Willa doubted the Tourons would be returning to Kildare anytime soon.

Nonetheless another part of her—the larger, more selfish part—was relieved to see an empty storefront. Silence meant safety. No prying eyes. No witnesses.

She did not ask Pope where his parents might have been if their store had been forced to stay closed. Were they out there somewhere, scouring the streets for him? Willa doubted her own parents were looking for her. That was its own twisted comfort. A win, if she squinted hard enough.

"Come on," Pope said, already moving. Willa adjusted Pope's backpack on her shoulders and followed as he grabbed three dented gasoline tanks from behind a stack of crates located on the side of the building.

Then, they bypassed the seafood shack entirely. The groaning planks of the boardwalk beneath their feet echoed with every step, and the salty tang of the marina soon filled Willa's nostrils. Somewhere beyond the haze of water and wood, police sirens still wailed faintly.

The sound had become an incessant companion to the Deveraux daughter, always there at the edges of her awareness. At first, the sirens had sent spikes of fear through her, made her pulse race. But now? Now, the sirens felt like part of the island itself. However, she still was not sure if that growing quiet in her ears was ultimately for the better or the worse. Was it a sign that the cops had pulled back? Or was it proof that Willa was already growing numb, resigned to this new reality of hers?

Neither option offered her much comfort.

She kept close to Pope, her gaze flickering between him and the rising and falling waves to her left. The Heyward family's private gasoline pump was just ahead, its rusted edges catching the faint light. Willa's hands tightened on the straps of the backpack. They needed to hurry.

They had barely settled in around the pump, gas tanks now littered around them, when the thunder came.

It started as a low, rumbling roar that rolled across the marina, blotting out the police sirens entirely. Willa's head snapped toward the east, toward the open Atlantic beyond the line of houses skirting the opposite side of the channel. Beside her, Pope paused, too, a lone gas tank momentarily forgotten in his hands. Together, they watched the sky come alive and churn with dark, roiling clouds.

Just hours ago, Willa had watched the sunrise paint Kildare in hues of pink. Now, that warmth was gone, replaced by an ugly, rapidly growing wall of gray and yellow that stretched as far as the eye could see. In the very far-off distance, lightning forked across the ocean, each bolt illuminating the clouds in flashes.

"That doesn't look promising," Willa murmured over the rising wind. Her flannel snapped against her sides like a flag caught in a gale. She glanced toward the storm clouds again, uneasy. "You think it's going to hit here?"

"With our luck? Definitely," Pope huffed as he worked to top off the second tank.

Before Willa could respond, a new voice cut through the thunder:

"You're going to have to worry about something else hitting you before that storm does."

Willa's heart plummeted with recognition. She turned slowly to greet Mr. Heyward as he emerged from the shadowed doorway of his empty seafood shop. His heavy steps were deliberate, but he was not even looking at her. It was as if he had chosen not to see her at all.

Willa knew why: if he acknowledged her now, if he let himself see her alongside Pope, he would want to strangle both of them.

"Look at you," Mr. Heyward sneered, his voice thick with disappointment. His charcoal eyes bore into his son—his only child at all. "Like some damn street hood out here stealing gas from me. My own blood."

"Willa," Pope called curtly, sharp under his breath, so that his father did not hear him.

The rest of the command was not spoken, but Willa understood. She felt his hand press briefly against her shoulder before he stepped forward and away from the gas pump, placing himself between her and his father. It was unspoken, but clear: Guard the gas. Once it's done, get to the bike. I will handle him.

Willa's throat tightened uncomfortably, but she obeyed. She sank to her knees beside the final tank, Pope's backpack slipping from her shoulders. Her fingers worked quickly, arranging the already full canisters inside the bag as the last tank filled. But while she was forced to wait, her ears naturally tuned to the escalating confrontation just feet away.

"I'm not stealing, Dad," Pope insisted. He stood only a foot away from his father now. He looked cornered, like a boxer forced into a fight he was not ready for.

"Stop lying," Mr. Heyward snapped. "I saw the hose in your damn hand. And her—" His big hand shot out, pointing boldly at Willa. "I just watched her pack up two tanks. And you still ain't done."

"Our friend is in trouble," Pope countered, his voice growing firmer. "We need to help him."

Mr. Heyward let out a harsh, unbelieving laugh. "Your friend is wanted for murder—"

"John B. did not kill anybody!"

"Says who?"

"Says me," Pope defended.

"And I'm supposed to believe you?" Mr. Heyward shot back. "After you ran out on your interview?"

From where she crouched, Willa swiftly glanced up. Pope now looked crushed—small, like a kicked puppy—beneath his father's newfound fury. Willa could only imagine the anger that must have erupted when Mr. Heyward first learned the truth regarding the outcome of the scholarship interview. To him, it must have seemed as though his son had taken everything—his hard work, his sacrifices—and tossed it aside like it were nothing.

And now, it looked like he was ready to relive that rampage.

"Shit, give me those tanks," Mr. Heyward barked. He made a move to step around Pope, reaching for Willa, reaching for the hose still connected to the final gas can.

Instinctively, Willa yanked the tank back. The startled motion was sharp, panicked, and her hands quivered as she clutched it tighter. The small act of defiance immediately made her stomach sour with self-loathing. Every inch of space she claimed, every gallon of gas she illegally siphoned, suddenly felt evil.

How could she do this?

She stared up at Mr. Heyward again, the man who had welcomed her into Heyward's Seafood without hesitation. Only a week ago, he had let her stand behind his counter, let her run his shop with Pope and Kiara, while JJ stirred up trouble in the aisles. He had not once looked at her like she did not belong, like she was some spoiled Kook slumming it in the Cut. He had treated her with respect, with kindness—like she was one of them.

And now, she was repaying him by stealing from him.

She could not even pretend she had not meant to. Because she had. The plan had seemed so simple that morning—take the gas, get away clean, no one gets hurt. But now, someone was getting hurt. Mr. Heyward was being betrayed by his own son and worse—Willa was now part of that betrayal.

She hated herself. Hated what she was doing, hated what it said about her. She had wanted to prove she was not just some entitled rich girl who thought she could get away with everything. She had wanted to prove that she was better than the privileged life she came from. That someone like Mr. Heyward, someone from the Cut with real integrity, could see her as something worthy, without judgment.

Yet here she was, proving all those assumptions right in the worst way possible. Mr. Heyward would never look at her the same way again. He would hate her forever.

Willa could barely see through the sheen blurring her vision. Was she crying? She had not even realized when it started. The guilt clawing at her chest was so dominating, so overwhelming, that it spilled out before she could stop it. Please. I did not want this. I did not want to hurt anyone.

"Leave her alone, Dad," Pope demanded, ripping Willa from her spiraling thoughts. She blinked, hastily wiping at her sage green eyes as she looked up. Pope had once again stepped in front of his own father, blocking his path to her, and to the gas pump.

"Oh, you a man now?" Mr. Heyward mocked. "Protecting your lady?"

"She's my friend," Pope corrected sternly. "And this wasn't her call. It was mine. She's only here to help."

"I don't care what she's here for," Mr. Heyward denounced, his eyes narrowing as he took another defining step closer to his son. "You think you can just steal from me? Your own father? You think you can have a go at it with me? Is that it?"

Willa could practically hear the seething steam rising from Pope's throat as he continued to lock eyes with his father, each one of them a bull caught in a violent standoff. The tension between them crackled like the stormy air growing overhead, and Willa was frozen, terrified, wondering who would get impaled by the other's wrath.

Then, her gaze flicked to the tank at her knees, and a wave of relief trickled over her shoulders, realizing it was finally full. Heart pounding, she quickly removed the hose and wrapped it around the base of the pump. She secured the tank's small, black lid with shaky fingers, but as she stood and slung Pope's now-heavy backpack over her shoulders, she knew she could not just walk back to the dirt bike. She could not let the father and son continue to rattle and rile each other up.

"We're good, Pope," Willa whispered. Take the cue, take the cue.

"You ain't good," Mr. Heyward spat. "You ain't—"

"We're walking out of here with these damn cans," Pope bluntly interrupted. "You're not getting in our way."

"Oh, I'm getting in your way," Mr. Heyward growled back, leaning forward until their faces were mere inches apart, nearly touching in their matched ferocity. "And one day, you might be able to whoop my ass, but it ain't today!"

His beefy, muscular arms shot out, shoving Pope's skinny torso with enough force to stagger him back a step. A surprised gasp escaped Willa, and she immediately lurched in alarm, backpedaling to avoid getting stepped on.

In the very next breath, Pope retaliated. "Willa, get to the bike!" he shouted at her, right before lunging forward with a shove of his own. His hands hit his father's wide shoulders hard enough to make the older man stumble, nearly knocking him to the ground.

But Willa did not run to the dirt bike. She was paralyzed on the boardwalk. "Stop!" she pleaded. "Both of you, stop it!"

Neither Heyward listened.

The shoving between them only escalated, only became more deranged. Alone on the marina, with no one older, bigger, around to intervene, Willa realized this was not a fight she could stop, lest she wind up as another punching bag. Yet, somehow, she already knew her place. She could not dare stop Pope. Not when he was like this.

Then, the first actual punch landed.

The sound of Pope's bony knuckles cracking against his father's round, fleshy jaw was louder than it should have been. Willa flinched, her breath hitching as she watched the impact unfold in slow, painful detail. Mr. Heyward's head snapped to the side, but he barely reacted. Blood smeared across his split upper lip, but he grinned through it, a wild glint forming in his eye.

"Oh, yeah! It's going to take a little more than that! Try again!" he taunted. "Come on! You want to hit your daddy? Try again!"

Pope's right hand trembled as he lifted it once more, his fist still clenched. Willa thought he might swing again. She waited for it, even . . . but he did not move.

Instead, his arm hung there, fixed mid-air. The fury in his eyes flickered, giving way to something far more vulnerable and devastating: pain. Tears welled, and for a brief second, he looked just like the young kid he had always been—someone who had spent his entire life trying to prove himself to the man standing before him.

"Go on," Mr. Heyward pressed through gritted teeth. The anger was still brewing there in the older man, too, but so was a heartbreak all his own. The lines of his sweaty, graying face deepened while he waited to see if his rebelling teenage son would throw another punch. If his only son would cross that line, would willingly choose to harm his father while he had actual time to consider it. "You want to hit me?" he demanded, even as his voice cracked. "Hit me, son!"

Pope's fists fell to his sides.

He was making a different choice.

He looked at his father one last time, a final bidding, and shook his forlorn head. "I don't have time for this, Dad," he said quietly. "I've got to help my friend."

He turned then, daring to put his back to his father, and sought Willa with tear-streaked eyes. She was still rooted to the same spot near the gas pump. Once more, tears spilled over her sage green. Once more, in only a matter of days, she had watched another father and son nearly tear each other apart with their fists.

"Come on," Pope beckoned her softly.

Willa began to whimper. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." Her regretful words spilled out of her in broken pieces as Pope began leading her back toward the dirt bike parked at the far end of the marina. She glanced tearfully over her shoulder at Mr. Heyward, who looked so, so defeated. "I'm so sorry."

But Mr. Heyward met her growing disgrace with disgusted silence—and then paid her no more attention. His eyes burned into Pope's retreating back, his words like knives hurled through the humid morning. "You just go ahead, Pope!" he snarled. "Yeah, you take everything, son. You already have! You're an ungrateful son of a bitch!"

Willa felt Pope falter beside her for just a heartbeat—just long enough for her to catch the choked breath that rattled in his narrow chest. Still, he did not speak, he did not turn, did not so much as look back at Mr. Heyward. It was as if each insult, each accusation his father threw at him was one he had no choice but to carry now. He accepted the ugly words like they were undeniable truths—like brands he would bear for the rest of his life through invisible scars. Willa could almost feel them herself: ungrateful, unworthy, unforgiven.

All over again, Willa's heart broke. And all over again, she was exposed to a side of Pope she knew so little about. His quiet confidence that had once drawn her in was now rapidly shattering, piece by piece. His innocence was being stripped away.

But how could it not? After everything they had seen? After all they were being forced to do?

With his arm still pressed firmly against her lower back, Willa could feel everything Pope was trying to hold in. She could feel the deliberate stiffness spreading through him—his rage, his grief, his confusion—molding together into one dangerous wrecking ball. It was already drawn back, waiting to be unleashed. It was only a matter of time before its chain broke.

Willa did not want to be there when it finally did.

➸➸➸

WILLA HOPED THAT JJ and Kiara had managed to find the keys to The Phantom. If they had not succeeded, then everything she and Pope had just done was for nothing. Pope had cut ties with his father—for nothing. Willa had betrayed the only parental figure on the entire island who had ever shown her compassion—for nothing.

The thought made her sick. In a similar state, she could feel Pope's anguish radiating like a furnace from his hunched frame while she held tight to his back. She could not see his face, but she did not need to. What they had done at Heyward's Seafood was terrible. It was vile. They were becoming the ugliest versions of themselves. With every passing day, every action they dared to take was suddenly warped by an almost manic desperation.

And the current day was still not over. It was not even late afternoon yet. There was still so much that could go wrong.

Please, please, let this next part go right. But Willa was growing tired of begging.

Pope steered the dirt bike onto a new, cracked stretch of pavement leading, once again, back into the relative outskirts of the Cut. The boathouse JJ had described was not far now. Supposedly, it was tucked only a mile or so from the dump itself where no one in their right mind would think to look. It was the perfect hiding spot for something as risky as The Phantom, a boat built for smuggling, for trafficking, for trouble.

Willa squinted past Pope's shoulder and spotted said boathouse in the grassy distance. Its metal shutter was rolled halfway up, and Kiara's battered, green SUV was parked just inside. Relief fluttered in her chest. If the car was here, JJ and Kiara were too. With any luck, they were already securing the boat to the SUV's tow hitch. From there, they would haul it to the dump and hand it off to John B.

One step closer to being done.

The dirt bike skidded to a stop on the gravel, and Pope killed the engine. Willa's right arm was beginning to cramp, the gas tank she had stolen from Mr. Heyward biting into her fingers, the handle leaving marks on her skin. The other two tanks in her backpack felt like dead weights all their own, the straps digging into her collarbones. She shifted, trying to ease the ache as she slid off the bike.

The surrounding area of the boathouse was noticeably still, despite the distant thunder that still boomed overhead. Willa glanced at Pope, wondering if he noted anything strange, too, but he would not look at her. His jaw was still tight, his shoulders still painfully rigid. Maybe a part of him was still back at the marina, reliving the fight with his father. The petty shoves. The intentional punches. The bitter ridicule. The awful disappointment.

Willa wanted to say something, to attempt to cheer him up, but what would be the point? Lies would not soothe them now. She and Pope had made their choices, had crossed their lines. They both knew there was no going back. They had to live with their guilty consciences.

So, instead, she tried a distraction. "Do you think John B. is already—"

"I want my motherfucking money!"

The vicious shout tore through Willa like a gunshot.

"JJ!" Kiara's voice followed, sharp with sheer terror.

A clamor of chaos erupted from the nearby boathouse—more screams, crashing metal, the scrape of boots on hard ground. The sound of a struggle. Willa and Pope abruptly halted in place as the stunned shouts inside the metal structure grew louder, more uncontrolled. And then new voices joined, too. They were menacing, demanding. Familiar.

The gas tank dropped from Willa's hand. She hurriedly tore the backpack from her shoulders and bolted toward the open shutter of the boathouse. Pope followed close behind, his breaths turning rapid again as fresh panic took hold. Before their very eyes, deep in the depths of the dark, cluttered boathouse, was the massive hull of The Phantom. But what held Willa's terrified gaze was not the boat—it was what was happening beneath it.

JJ and Kiara were being attacked.

The once-ferocious Maybank boy now stood stiff as a board, his ringed hands forced high above his head, his icy blue eyes locked on the barrel of a pistol aimed directly at his chest. The gunman's dirty finger twitched on the trigger, his threat painfully clear.

The assailant wore no ski mask this time to hide his identity. So, the drug dealer had finally caught up to them, just like Willa had warned John B. he would. Right here, right now, the Kildare County Police were suddenly the least of the Pogues' worries. Barry Benson, the rampant and tweaked basehead, had already hunted them down.

But he was not alone.

Rafe Cameron was there in the boathouse, too, and the surprising sight of him sent a shockwave through Willa's body. Rafe—who was Sheriff Peterkin's true murderer, whose fingerprints still faintly bruised the Deveraux daughter's own neck, whose hatred had left still-healing scars on Pope's forehead from a near-deadly golf swing—was right there.

Now, the Cameron son looked ready to claim another life for his growing ledger. Kiara, who was so much younger and smaller, kicked and screamed in Rafe's hold as he manhandled her with ease. His twisted grin grew, delighting in her pain.

But Pope would not let him hurt anyone else.

With a snarl, the Heyward son stormed into the boathouse. Willa hesitated for only a nanosecond in his absence, her mind racing to assess the rest of the scene, to determine her next move. Now several steps ahead, Pope grabbed a long, oily crowbar from the nearby ground and lunged.

Rafe was still too focused on Kiara's squirming, his fingers closing around her slender throat, ready to hoist her off the ground entirely, that he did not see Pope coming. He did not even hear him. No, the only sound at all was that of the crowbar meeting Rafe's unsuspecting back. Rafe staggered under the blow, his hold on Kiara breaking as she fell to the ground in a wheezing, crumpled heap.

Before Rafe could recover, Pope struck him again, this time slamming the metal bar into his ribs. But there was no time to celebrate the fact that Pope was winning. Near the bow of The Phantom Barry still had his gun trained on JJ. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Willa moved.

She darted into the boathouse and hurried around the unfolding struggle of Rafe and Pope. The former was still writhing on the ground, the latter towering over him, crowbar raised for another swing. Skimming past them, Willa's wild eyes locked on a bright red toolbox perched on a nearby cart. She reached inside and grabbed the heaviest tool she could find—a wrench, its solid weight fitting perfectly in her bruised hands.

She turned to Barry. She did not think about the consequences—the insanity—of taking a wrench to a gunfight. She could not afford to. Any second now, Barry would pull the trigger anyway, and JJ would be dead. She would not let that happen.

Willa screamed as she charged. She swung the tool with everything she had, her anger and fear colliding in the arc of her strike, until the wrench connected with the back of Barry's greasy, black-haired head. The sound of its impact against a human skull was a dull, meaty crack that reverberated deep in Willa's shoulders.

It should have been enough to send him crashing to the ground. But instead, Barry staggered forward, barely fazed, and straightened as though she had done nothing more than shove him. Willa's breath caught. How? How was he still standing? Did he even feel it? Then it hit her—he was high. He had to be. His bloodstream was likely laced with enough drugs to dull even the worst pain.

He abruptly wheeled on Willa, and his bloodshot eyes locked onto her rattled ones. His gaze was empty, inhuman, a predator's stare. And before she could move away from it, Barry's fist connected with her face next.

He threw his entire weight into the punch.

Willa's world tilted. She crumpled to the cold cement, pain exploding across her left cheekbone and lower jaw like fire. A high-pitched ringing pierced her ears, drowning out all other hectic sounds in the boathouse. She immediately tasted blood—metallic and warm—pooling in her mouth, and the copper tang only heightened her nausea.

Through the growing disorientation, she saw Barry stalk forward. His massive shadow stretched over her body like Death itself. The pistol in his hand shifted, and she knew he was aiming at her now.

Willa barely registered JJ's shout in her ringing ears. "No!"

Barry's lips curled into a blurring, cruel sneer. His finger found the trigger once more. This was it, Willa thought distantly, my consequence. She braced herself for the bullet, for the searing pain to tear into her sternum, her abdomen. She braced for the end.

But the killing shot never came.

Instead, JJ collided with Barry like a human battering ram, slamming him into the sleek side of The Phantom before tackling him to the ground in a tangle of limbs and flying fists. Barry grunted, his gun skittering out of his grasp and sliding across the floor—right in Willa's direction. She blinked, her vision still swimming as she watched it soar.

"Grab the gun!" JJ hoarsely ordered.

Willa struggled to focus. The boathouse still rippled in waves, her head still pounded. But she forced herself to move. JJ needed her. Every inch of her body screamed in agony as she twisted on the ground and began to drag herself forward, in the direction of the weapon. Every movement of hers felt sluggish and heavy. Blood dripped steadily from her split lip, staining the concrete as she crawled. The gun was only a few feet away, but it felt like miles.

She stretched out her trembling fingers and finally secured it in her hand.

Behind her, JJ cursed and shouted. A vicious sound so guttural escaped him that it made Willa's coiling stomach lurch again. She turned just in time, vision still blurred, to see him straddle Barry. Each punch he landed was echoed by a nasty crunch, blood spraying as JJ's knuckles met the drug dealer's ugly face over and over.

Barry was no match. His struggles grew weaker with each hit, his limbs twitching feebly before going still. Finally, his head lolled to the side, his body limp and unmoving.

After, JJ rose slowly, his shoulders heaving, fists dripping with blood. He stood over Barry's unconscious form, his entire teenage frame vibrating with rage still unspent. Willa stared at him, wide-eyed, her heart pounding against her ribs. She had never seen him like this, so unhinged, so powerful, so sure of himself. And yet, she had never felt so unhinged herself either. Because suddenly, the cold metal of the gun in her hand was not as terrifying as she felt it once had been.

"Pope! Okay, Pope! Pope! Pope, that's good! Stop!"

From the edge of her spinning awareness came Kiara's hysterical screams. Willa turned her leaden head in the opposite direction, her vision tunneling on the violence still unfolding from the other two boys just feet away. The crowbar Pope had wielded earlier had been abandoned, discarded in favor of something far more personal—his bare hands.

"Pope, that's too much!"

In only seconds, the Heyward son had grabbed a thin rubber tube lying nearby and had looped it around the Cameron son's neck.

The blood streaming from Rafe's broken face—from his nose, his mouth—mixed with the choking sounds now gurgling from his throat. His knees buckled under him, body sagging as Pope pulled the tube tighter and tighter. Rafe's lips began to pale, his blue eyes bulging.

Standing behind him, glowering below, Pope looked monstrous.

Willa realized then that the wrecking ball she had recognized only hours ago—that she had accepted would wreak havoc—had finally swung. Such little warning. It had only taken one moment, one person, and the fragile control Pope had attempted to hold within himself had snapped. And in its wake, he was finally going to kill Rafe Cameron.

Willa did not know if she wanted him to stop.

It would be deserved, a spiteful voice whispered in the back of her mind, pointed and unguarded. Rafe deserved this. He deserved every ounce of Pope's revenge.

Rafe had humiliated Pope, had beaten him to an inch of his life for entertainment, and had gotten away scot-free. In the end, only Pope had been left with repercussions. With alarming nightmares. With numbing fear. With blistering resentment Willa had seen it all forming that day, while she stitched his forehead back into one piece. And now, all those spiraling emotions had come to a volcanic head.

Still, Kiara continued to beg for absolution. Willa's gaze flicked back to the Carrera daughter, who was clawing at Pope's shoulder. She looked at him like she did not even recognize him. Like that was not her best friend since kindergarten. It scared her. And who, in their right mind, would not be scared?

Because Pope was not Pope anymore. He was only sixteen years old. Sixteen and entirely consumed by bloodlust.

But Kiara's hands alone were not strong enough to stop him. She could not physically pull him from this path. And if Kiara could not, someone else had to.

From the corner of her already-swelling left eye, Willa saw JJ stagger away from Barry. He stepped around her, crossed the distance of the boathouse in seconds, and threw his arms around Pope in a crushing bearhug. "Dude, stop! Come on!" he pleaded desperately as he wrenched his friend backward. "Snap out of it, Pope!"

But Pope's clutch did not weaken. In fact, the tube in his hands only tightened further around Rafe's neck. Beneath him, Rafe's body jerked, half-suspended, his eyes rolling lifelessly into the back of his head.

Good.

JJ refused to let go. He readjusted his hold, tugging at Pope's shoulders with all the strength he had left. "POPE!" he bellowed.

"Pope, please!" Kiara stepped into Pope's narrowed line of sight. She leaned close, almost nose to nose with him, her voice splintering into a shriek. "LOOK AT ME!"

In a single, shuddering breath, Pope's maddened gaze snapped to hers.

That was what broke him. It was Kie.

His hands faltered, then released. The tube fell from his sweaty grip, and Rafe collapsed backward onto the cement, sinking like a stone.

For several minutes, none of their hovering trio moved. Kiara's shoulders shook as she fought to calm herself again. Pope's chest heaved with ragged breaths, nearly hyperventilating, his teeth clenched as if holding back a scream. JJ, also breathing hard now, ran his hands through his hair, his fists tangling in the blonde strands as he stared at his boots. Then, as Rafe's blood began to seep across the concrete in slow, glistening tendrils, they all instinctively backed away.

All except Willa.

She stayed where she was, kneeling on the ground. For the first time that day, she did not tremble. She did not cry. Her face throbbed where Barry's punch had landed, but the pain felt distant, unimportant.

What mattered was the gun in her hand.

She was not sure what sparked that thought. Not exactly. Maybe it was the memory of Rafe's hands on her. Maybe it was the fear he instilled so feverishly in her—the kind that left her hollow, the kind that molded to her smaller body like a second skin, that she knew would never really go away, not if he was still there. Or—maybe it was simply the blunt force of Barry's fist, rattling her brain until reason had no place left to stand.

Whatever it was, in one breath, Pope had spared Rafe's life, and in the next, Willa decided it still needed to be taken.

Her stare fell to the pistol in her lap again, her fingers curling tighter around it. Her hands did not shake anymore. That was the strangest part. Two weeks ago, when the square groupers had stormed the Chateau, she had been frozen at the sight of a gun. The very idea of holding one, of using one, had paralyzed her. Now, it felt like the surest part of her body.

Or was it even her body anymore?

Willa was not sure.

She was not sure she even cared.

All she knew was that Rafe Cameron had to die.

Willa was tired of being afraid. Tired of running, of loose ends, of monsters who never faced justice. Besides, she thought, how hard could it be to pull a trigger?

She was about to find out.

Willa numbly pushed herself back to her feet. Blood—her own blood—streaked across her flushed skin. She could feel it stained on her chin, pooled on her bitten tongue, and coated on her neck. She felt dizzy when she finally stood upright, her body threatening to give way beneath her all over, but she refused to let herself fall again.

Her grip on Barry's gun steadied. She shoved past Kiara and JJ, startling them both. Neither of them had expected her to move, let alone with such determination. Before they could stop her, before they could even process what was happening, Willa raised the gun and aimed it directly at Rafe's head.

"Willa, what are you—no!" Kiara screamed.

Despite their surprise, no one actually touched her. Good. If anyone had dared, she might have flinched—and the trigger might have gone off. She was not ready for that. Not yet. She wanted to savor this.

Rafe lay sprawled below, his torso heaving as he gasped for lost breath. Bright red blood streaked thickly down his face and soaked his T-shirt, the dark stains spreading from his broken nose. His crystal eyes, wide and unblinking, locked onto Willa's. He did not beg. He did not speak at all. It was as though he expected her to pull the trigger.

Maybe he even wanted her to.

"Put the gun down."

Willa did not look at JJ when he spoke to her. She kept her focus on the straight barrel of the pistol, the sight still aligned with Rafe's reddening forehead. "Why should I?" she shot back. She barely recognized her own gravelly, rasp of a voice. "Nothing to lose, right?"

"No." JJ stepped closer. She could feel his presence practically engulf her as he rounded out her shoulder, as his chest pressed into her locked, lifted elbow. His heartbeat pulsed against her skin. His voice softened, yet it was still somehow stern as his piercing blue stare burned warily into the side of her face. "You've still got something to lose."

He nudged her shoulder. It was not a harsh movement; just enough to break her trance without jarring her aim. Willa glanced at him briefly, sage-green eyes flashing with irritation, but JJ's attention was not on her anymore. He was looking past her, toward the entrance of the boathouse. Her gaze followed his.

And then she saw him.

Ace.

Her little brother stood in the open entryway, framed by the harsh rays of sunlight slicing through the shutter. His figure was unnervingly still, his face hidden in shadow. Willa's heart clenched. Had he been here the whole time? Watching? Like he had at the park last week, lurking while Rafe, Topper, and Kelce ambushed them?

That time, Willa had nearly ended the fight with a gun too. But Ace had not seen that part of her—not then. She had buried her actions, swallowed them whole.

Now, it was all out in the open.

The gun dipped in Willa's hand.

Then, upon realizing it, her lips curled, and she snarled the first command that came to mind. "Go home, Ace."

But he did not move. He just stood there, silent, watching her. Seeing her. Seeing her in a way no one ever had.

"Ace, go home!" she barked again, louder that time. She needed him to be afraid. She needed him gone. She needed him to be anywhere but here.

Finally, he did. Slowly, carefully, the true-blooded Deveraux son backed away from the threshold. His movements were cautious, retreating as if afraid to provoke the monster standing in the center of the boathouse: his sister, aiming a gun at another human being, looking ready to pull the trigger.

Ace did not say a word. He did not glance at Barry or Rafe—the two people he had surely been there for. Willa could not bring herself to wonder why her little brother had been with both of them in the first place, could not let herself ask what he had been doing in their company during an island lockdown.

Had he been hunting her, too?

If that was the case, Willa found little comfort in letting him go. He would still be waiting for her when she went home.

Only when Ace was gone did Willa finally exhale. The breath she had been holding felt like glass breaking in her lungs, shards cutting through her exhaustion. Her energy evaporated in an instant. The gun slipped lower in her hand, her arm falling to hang limp by her side. Her head drooped. In that very same breath, however, Willa became acutely aware of JJ's presence beside her again. His calloused fingers brushed against the inner side of her wrist, curling carefully, cautiously.

He was trying to take the gun.

No.

Her fingers tightened instantly on the pistol. She pulled her arm back, the weapon pressing securely against her thigh. She did not look at him, did not trust herself to. Trust was not something she could extend right now—not to JJ. Because while she might have cared for him, while she might have almost understood the reasons behind his desire to reclaim the gun, there was that familiar part of her that still had not forgiven him. That part of her still stuck in the Boneyard.

The gun was safer in Willa's own hands.

At least, that was what she told herself.

Yet for once, JJ did not push her. He did not demand an explanation or insult her. He simply stepped closer to her.

Behind them, Kiara shakily cleared her throat. "We need to get out of here," she decided.

The Carrera daughter did not wait for confirmation. She spun on her heel, moving quickly despite the shake in her steps. Her auburn eyes avoided Barry's body as she stepped carefully over him and headed toward her SUV. JJ eventually followed after, his movements slower, more hesitant. But Willa lingered. So did Pope. He had been so quiet since being ripped from his savage trance, the rage that had consumed him moments ago now tempered, smoldering. Yet his silence did not mean peace.

He stepped up to Willa's side once more, his glare boring down into Rafe's bloodied, battered face. The Cameron son still lay on his back, ruptured chest still sputtering in labored gulps. His fingers twitched near his throat, clawing weakly at the angry, dark bruises that were already forming there.

"Stay off the Cut," Pope growled.

He did not wait for a reaction. For a whimper. For a death rattle. Like he had done before at the marina, his hand simply found the small of Willa's back. He began to guide her, pulling her away from the destruction they had created, had briefly thrived within even, and back toward the waiting SUV.

Willa moved mechanically thereafter, her feet navigating the mess of bodies and blood. As she walked, she slipped Barry's gun into the waistband of her shorts and tugged her flannel down to conceal it. Pope made sure she was settled in the backseat of the vehicle before climbing in beside her. Then, he slammed the door shut behind them with finality.

But even as the SUV rumbled forward, its tires grinding against the loose gravel, The Phantom now successfully trailing behind, Willa could not resist a last glance backward. Her sage green eyes darted past the hulking frame of the boat, back into the boathouse. Back to where Rafe and Barry were motionless.

She wanted to believe it was enough. That she and the Pogues had done what was needed to keep Sheriff Peterkin's murderer in his place. To keep him beaten. Powerless. But a knot of doubt unknowingly coiled in her chest.

This was not the end. Not for Willa Deveraux. Not for Rafe Cameron.

Not by a long shot.

~~~~~~~~~~

i hate action scenes because yes willa just went apeshit with a wrench.  then got her own shit wrecked.  then stole a glock and basically threw her sanity out the window.

however, my favorite parallel in this willa and pope centric chapter is that willa kept watching pope, kept waiting for him to snap--and then she just goes and snaps, too.  miss girl really thought she had control on her own emotions but let's be real here, she's been slipping for a while.

good discussion point, though!  as a reader, when do YOU think willa's mental state/handle on her emotions really started to slip?  let's talk about it!  (i hope i wrote her snapping well??)

on another note, i love the mystery of ace deveraux fr.  boy really just shows up out of nowhere and we still have no idea what he's actually doing.  but lowkey i do, muahahahah.  so, make a prediction! what do you think ace has been up to all this time?  do you think he's another villain or has a different role to play in willa's story

butttttt ohmygosh there's only two chapters left for season one!! how do you think it's all going to end for our favorite little deveraux daughter?

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.