[ xli. darkness does not keep ]

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IT WAS A QUARTER past three, and John B. Routledge was late for his own illegal island breakout.

Willa stood impatiently, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, glaring down the barren dirt road that snaked out of the dump. The wind whipped at her hair, tugging curly strands loose from the knotted bun atop her head as a haze of dust lingered in the air, churned up by the restless gusts.  Overhead, thunder still rumbled.  The tropical storm off the southern coast of Kildare crept closer, its presence swallowing the summer sky in layers of sickly yellow-orange and murky brown. Shadows from low, bloated clouds clawed across the Pogues' meeting point, casting everything in an almost apocalyptic gloom.

"Dude, where is he?"

Kiara's voice was tight with worry. Willa glanced backward, catching sight of her pacing on the dump's stained and smelly loading dock, her steps quick and nervous. Beyond her, Pope and JJ had unhitched The Phantom from Kiara's SUV and launched it into the water.  Now, the old boat rocked gently as the boys quickly adjusted—then readjusted again—several ropes and pulleys, ensuring all last-minute checks were complete for when their fugitive friend finally arrived to escape off into the sunset.

Because John B. had to arrive. He had to.

Still, Willa could not shake the stubborn anxiety coiled tightly in her chest. Twenty-four hours. That was how long it had been since she had last seen John B.  He had gone twenty-four hours without shelter, weapons, or security—while an entire police force, an entire island, hunted him down.  Willa did not want to think about what those hours might have included, what they could mean if the unthinkable had happened.

Even the wail of sirens had finally fallen silent.

"He's coming. He'll be fine," JJ called from the boat.  Currently, he was crouched down, securing a tarp over boxes of supplies—pilfered goods from the Carrera family's restaurant, of course.

Willa had not had time to actually sift through the boxes to see what John B. would ultimately have to survive with. No, for most of the short ride from the boathouse to the dump, her attention had been far away, lost in the violence she had nearly succumbed to.  She had nearly killed Rafe Cameron, had nearly put a bullet between his eyes. She could not bring herself to feel guilty.  And yet, part of her was still unsettled by it. Maybe even a part of her wished to forget it; to ignore that part of herself again.  But that did not exactly seem possible anymore.

Gratefully, even in her own convinced lunacy, JJ, Pope, and Kiara did not seem at all disturbed by Willa's actions. They did not treat her any differently, did not look at her like she had done something wrong.  And she did not do the same to them.  They had all gone to that dark place together, fought and bled and survived the ambush Rafe and Barry had unleashed in the boathouse. That was all that mattered now. They could deal with the repercussions—the fact they had spared Rafe and Barry after beating them senseless; the fact that they still needed to live on the island with them after this was all over—another day.

A distant sound broke through Willa's thoughts—the chirp of a police siren.

Willa's head snapped back toward the dirt road. Her stomach dropped as Deputy Shoupe's lone patrol truck roared into view, barreling toward them in a cloud of dust.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath.

Alone or not, Shoupe was more than enough to slap handcuffs on all the teenagers, especially when they had nowhere to run but into the open water behind them.

JJ was the first to consider attempting this. "Girls, get on the boat!" he shouted to Willa and Kiara. "Pope, untie it. Let's go!"

Willa hesitated. The illegal handgun tucked into her waistband was suddenly very, very heavy. If she ditched it now, tossed it into the water along with John B.'s jacket still stuffed in the SUV's backseat, maybe—

The truck skidded to a stop just feet away from her.

The driver's side door creaked open. Willa waited to see Deputy Shoupe step out and demand they put their hands up. But it was not him.

It was John B.

Dirtier. Still bloodstained. Somehow more disheveled. But alive. Alive and safe even though he . . . he . . .

Clearly stole a police car.

"No. Fucking. Way," JJ said from somewhere over Willa's shoulder.

"You've got to be kidding me," Pope breathed, stunned.

"I'm sorry," Kiara sputtered, relief breaking into a laugh as she pushed past Willa to greet John B.

Willa's eyes traced the Routledge boy up and down, and then she glanced once more at the parked patrol truck. "What the hell are you doing in Shoupe's car . . . without Shoupe?"

John B. flashed her a crooked grin and ran a hand through his messy, wavy hair as he strolled toward their gathered group on the dock. "He let me take it for a spin," He nonchalantly teased.

"Okay, that's believable," Kiara snorted, pulling him into a quick hug. "I'll buy that. For now."

"I don't even want to know what you had to pull to get this," Willa muttered, even as her gaze softened when John B. finally turned to her. She studied him closely again—those familiar hickory eyes, his tattered clothes. For the first time in days, John B.'s spark appeared to have returned to him. No longer did he seem such a shell of himself, no longer did he seem like he had run out of options. He seemed ready to flee, ready to see where the rest of the world out there would take him.

Willa's shoulders unknowingly sank. The getaway boat was right behind her, his way out was right behind her. In minutes, John B. would step onto it—and she would not.

This was it.

JJ interrupted. He leaped off the starboard, landing beside Pope on the dock. "It wasn't easy, bro," he admitted, tossing John B. the keys to the boat. "But I got The Phantom for you, and she runs like she was made yesterday. You ready to go?"

John B. caught the keys and turned toward The Phantom with a nod. His eyes swept over the supplies, the life jackets, and the spare, emergency fuel tank.  All the while, Willa watched his expression shift—relief giving way to calculation, and then to something quieter, more somber. His gaze lingered on the empty space beside the wheel, where a co-captain should have stood.

"Where's Sarah?" he asked abruptly.

Willa's brow furrowed. His tone was not speculative or concerned—it was expectant, as if they were supposed to have her, as if something had changed in the hours that they had all been apart.

"Wait," Willa said, her frown creasing further. "We tried breaking Sarah out last night, but Ward interrupted before we could. You're saying she still got out on her own after?"

John B. nodded. "She found me last night near the old bell tower."

"When was this?"

"Around one in the morning."

Damn. Willa could not help but be impressed. For all her princess appearances, Sarah Cameron really was more Pogue than Kook, too.

"Then why isn't she with you anymore?" Kiara pressed.

"We got separated in the swamp," John B. revealed to them, the frown on his own face deepening, too. "She was supposed to make it here before me. She said she'd meet me at the dock."

"Well, we haven't seen her," Pope said, shaking his head.

Worry flashed in John B's warm eyes, and his words turned rampant. They began to tumble out into broken, stammered fragments. "Okay, w-well, I'm not leaving without Sarah!" he exclaimed.

"John B., look at me," JJ pleaded. He stepped into his best friend's line of sight, forcing their gazes to lock. "I know you feel bad for leaving, but there's no time, man. You've got plenty of gas, plenty of food. Once you get around the Point, it's a straight shot across the sound to Dismal Swamp, okay? Once you get there, lay low, all right? Hang out for a couple of weeks and then go overland, cross the border at Brownsville, you got that?"

John B.'s head turned away at the last stretch of JJ's instructions, his eyes drifting over Willa, Kiara, and Pope's heads, back toward the dirt road they had all been watching at one point. As if, at any second, Sarah might appear, racing toward them in her own stolen patrol car. As if wishing hard enough would make her materialize.

But she did not, and JJ likely saw the pull of memory beginning to drag John B. under. The Maybank boy would not let it happen.  "Hey!" JJ grabbed the sides of John B.'s head, forcing their foreheads nearly together, desperate to ensure that he understood all he needed to do in order to stay alive. "Brownsville. You got that?"

John B. blinked hard, his throat bobbing. "Y-Yeah, yeah," he stammered. "Brownsville."

Relief flickered in JJ's ocean-blue eyes, catching the flash of distant lightning. Willa looked upward at the sky, where storm clouds grew ever closer. John B. needed to get out of here, lest he get caught up in its approach. That was the last thing the Pogues needed to worry about: John B. getting sucked into waves too massive, too unpredictable, for even The Phantom to withstand.

JJ seemed to feel it too. He pulled back but not without giving John B. a final push toward The Phantom. "Saddle her up, saltwater cowboy. Let's do this."

John B. grabbed the boat's lifeline and clambered onto the bow. He inched toward the cockpit, the keys clutched tightly in his hand, but then he paused. Turning back, he looked at the four teenagers still standing on the dock, their youthful faces painted in hues of fading sunlight and growing shadows.

Willa stared openly back at John B. Nonetheless, heat began to rise in her chest, and she felt the telltale sting in her throat, the ache she always carried during goodbyes. She hated them with a passion so intense that she would have rather avoided them at all, would have rather Irish-goodbyed her entire life if she could. Because goodbyes were too final, too uncertain. Once someone left, there was no telling when—or if—they would come back.

Willa was terrified of where the open water would take John B., what it might turn him into.  She did not want him to be stolen away to a place she could not reach. She was a protector after all. Always had been. Maybe it was the burden of being an eldest daughter, the role thrust on her at birth—one she had not chosen but could not deny. The instinct to guard the people she loved with everything she had. Her siblings. Her friends. Her chosen family.

She could not protect John B. if he left her circle.

Unless . . .

"Wait, John B.!" Willa blurted.

She climbed onto the boat, nearly slipping in her haste.

Behind her, Kiara, Pope, and JJ stayed silent.  Their eyes followed her, but their voices offered no protest.  They already knew Willa could not possibly be leaving with him—not into the tropics, not into exile. No, Willa could not follow John B. into this next chapter of his life; after today, too many threads still bound her to Kildare. But she could still give him something.

Willa reached into the waistband of her shorts and pulled out Barry's stolen pistol. She extended it toward John B.

His eyes widened. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"Same place I got this," she said, motioning to her bruising cheekbone.

John B.'s expression darkened with concern. "I was going to ask—"

"You don't have time to," Willa said quickly. "It's not important. But this is. Take the gun."

"I can't—"

"John B., please," Willa interrupted again. She took a step closer, forcing the gun into his bloodied hands. Her voice softened. "I'm sorry you have to do this next part alone. But I told you a long time ago—if there was a way I could help you, I would. This is me keeping that promise."

John B. frowned, his grip still loose on the weapon between them. "Willa, you've already helped me every step of the way. I'm sorry for what it's cost you." His eyes delicately searched hers. "You've thrown everything away for me."

Willa swallowed hard. Then, she shook her head, a small, bittersweet smile touching her lips. "Not everything."

Because it was true. Knowing John B. had not cost the Deveraux daughter everything—just the pieces of herself that had never truly belonged. The parts that weighed her down, that were not hers to carry. In the last two weeks, John B. had stripped her life down to its core, and she realized she had never lived more fully. She did not regret it. She supposed she would not ever regret knowing John B. Routledge, not for anything in the world.

Willa curled John B.'s red-stained fingers carefully around the pistol. His hickory-brown eyes never left hers, even as his tears suddenly gathered and fell, looking upon her. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and pulled her into a fierce embrace. Willa melted into his arms, burying her face against his chest as her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt at his sides. She held on tightly, like letting go would mean losing him forever.

Goodbye, John B.

Willa could not say it aloud. It would shatter the little composure she had left. So, instead, she gave him ten seconds to hold her instead of nine, one shared, shaky breath between their lips, instead of none. Then she pulled away, forcing herself to step back.

JJ was there, waiting for her.  He held out a hand to Willa as she turned toward the dock. She grabbed it tightly, her fingers shaky, her vision blurred with tears. He guided her carefully down to the wooden planks, where she promptly went to stand beside Kiara. Willa crossed her arms again, forcing herself to stay planted to the planks beneath her feet, to not throw herself back onto the boat in a last-minute uproar. She kept her back to the land, the dirt road, and everything she would have to face when John B. was gone.

Meanwhile, the Routledge boy settled behind the wheel of The Phantom, and the engine rumbled quietly to life beneath him.  He hesitated, his hands gripping the levers he would need, understanding that this was his moment to leave. But as the realization sank in for the sixteen-year-old, his shoulders began to shake.

Then, John B. doubled over.  Childlike, broken sobs spilled out of him.

His tearful stare went back to the Pogues standing on the dock: Kiara, Pope, JJ—and Willa. Always his family. The people he could not take with him into the dark.

"I'm sorry," he said softly to them. "I'm sorry for basically . . . throwing us all off a cliff with this whole treasure hunt thing."

JJ laughed shortly.  It was a futile, manly attempt to mask the catch in his own voice. "John B., we were bound to run off a cliff at some point, right?" he returned. "At least we did it together." He reached out, pulling Pope and Kiara, who now stood on either side of him, into a loose, lopsided hug.

Willa stood slightly apart. She watched them playfully huddle, a warmth swelling in her, even as she still knew she was the outlier, the one who did not quite belong on the Pogues' totem pole. But then, Kiara reached for her hand, threading their fingers together and tugging her into their circle.

The moment Willa's shoulder touched Kiara's, JJ shifted too. His arm, which had draped loosely around Kiara's neck, extended intuitively, and his fingers—one pinkie adorned with a new ring—grazed Willa's bare skin. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he pulled her in closer, his hand settling fully on her shoulder.

It was the tiniest gesture. They all were, really—just a few broken teenagers leaning into one another. But in that little, easily forgotten moment, Willa felt more at home than she ever had.

She sniffled and blinked back fresh tears threatening to fall. She turned to John B. once more, who still stood at the wheel of The Phantom, watching them. His expression was carved with extreme longing.  He looked like he wanted to jump off the boat, run back to them, and fall into their arms.

"At least we were millionaires for a minute," Willa teased gently.

"Millionaires for a minute," JJ echoed. "Classic Pogue style."

John B. laughed lightly.  Yet it was a sound that was more heartbreak than joy. "Pogue style," he repeated.

Kiara wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.  Then, she began to wave him off and gently begged, "Now, go. Get out of here. Please. Stay safe."

"Love you," JJ said, voice turning hoarse as he continued to stubbornly try and swallow his own tears.

"We'll see you in two months, down in Mexico," Pope added, his voice steadier than the Maybank boy's, though his eyes glistened.

John B. nodded again, even as his bottom lip still quivered. All over again, his eyes darted back to the dirt road behind them, like he hoped to suddenly see a flash of blond hair—a sign that Sarah had made it. But the road was still empty. Another devastated sob escaped him, shaking his entire body as he turned back to his friends. "T-Tell Sarah I said goodbye, okay?"

Willa was the first to nod. Her chest tightened worriedly as her thoughts turned to Sarah. She wondered where the Cameron princess was now—whether she had truly escaped her gilded cage or if Ward and Rafe had dragged her back into their hellish home. Willa hoped it was not the latter. But even if it was, she, Kiara, Pope, and JJ would be there to get her out. They would not fail her this time.

More emotions flared in the Deveraux daughter as she contemplated that brash declaration. Once, those feelings had been bitter—anger, jealousy, betrayal. Once, the thought of Sarah Cameron and John B. Routledge together had been nearly too much to stomach. But now? Now it was obvious. They were the only pairing that made sense in their otherwise chaotic lives. And Willa?  Willa, who now cared deeply for them both, respected them both, forgave them both, knew she would protect them in any way she still could.

"We'll look after her," Willa promised.

John B.'s lips quirked into a tearful smile.

Elsewhere, JJ butted back into the conversation, once again trying to tear his best friend away from his heartache, and back to the real problem, the escape at hand. "Don't forget, JB," he instructed sternly. "Cross the border at Brownsville, okay?"

"Got it," John B. confirmed with a shaky nod. "Mind giving me a push?"

Without a word, the four friends forced to stay behind moved as one. Willa braced her hands against the bow, her palms steady despite the tremor in her bones, and gave a swift, sure shove. Immediately The Phantom began to edge away from the dump's loading dock and into open water.

John B. straightened, lifting a trembling hand in a farewell salute. "Bye, guys,"

Willa could hardly bear to hear the painful crack in his voice.  She gripped Kiara's hand tighter as the boat drifted farther into the growing sunset. Willa's sage green stare locked with John B.'s hickory one last time, both their tears streaming freely now. She forced a smile—a silent reassurance meant only for them.

You're okay. I'm okay. Everything is going to be okay. Someday, we will all be together again.

In only minutes, the last glimpse of John B. Routledge and the stolen Phantom faded off into the marsh's horizon.  In the backdrop, the fiery orb of the sun burned crimson through dark clouds bruising the sky, sinking low against the growing tempest.

Willa's heart was lodged somewhere between her ribs and her throat. She told herself this would not be the last time she would ever see the Routledge boy. It could not be. He would make it. He had to.  He was John B., after all—survivor of so much already.  Electrocutions, broken wrists, near-drownings, manhunts.  This tropical storm was just one more obstacle he would overcome.

Please, Willa begged, please let there be no police boats anchored near the Point. Please let there be no traps waiting at Dismal Swamp. Please, do not let him fall into Shoupe's hands—or Thomas's, or God forbid, Ward's. Please, let him make it.

JJ cleared his throat.

The other three teenagers turned from the fading light of the sun, from the memory of John B. altogether, and back to the Maybank boy. "We need to lay low," he said to them.

"No," Willa disagreed with a shake of her head. "We need to cause a distraction. We still have John B.'s jacket. We have to use it."

"Back to the Chateau?" Kiara suggested. She glanced between the two remaining boys. "One of you could wear it."

"They're not going to fall for that," Pope argued. "And if we just walk into one of their traps, we'll be right where they want us."

"What about the Boneyard?" Willa offered. "It's on the opposite side of the island, way off John B.'s route. The cops have already swept it—they'll think it's clear. If we make a scene, get someone to call it in, we could pull them back there, away from him."

JJ tilted his head, considering. "It's not a bad idea."

"It's our only idea," Willa countered.

Kiara crossed her arms. "You realize there's a good chance we'll get arrested if we do something like this, right?"

"Stupid things have good outcomes all the time, Kie," JJ insisted with a shrug. "We've got to try for John B. He'd do it for us."

It was decided then.  One last-ditch effort, one more wild gamble, to ensure John B. made his grand escape. Willa was ready. JJ was ready, too. Even Pope and Kiara, though their hesitance still wafted uncomfortably around them, were nodding. But before they could so much as step off the edge of the loading dock, an annoyingly familiar ringing cut through the gathering thunder.

Sirens.

The high-pitched wail echoed behind the gathered teenagers. The damning sound practically seared itself into Willa as the first glimpse of flashing blue lights appeared in the corner of her bruised eye.

She turned. There, speeding up the dirt road toward the dump was not just the Kildare County Police—but an entire convoy.  Sleek, jet-black SUVs swarmed alongside the familiar teal-colored patrol cars. The State Bureau of Investigation. The SBI. Two entire forces were coming straight for Willa, JJ, Pope, and Kiara, and they were coming fast.

They did not have a chance to hide. They did not even have a chance to run.

Dozens of vehicles screeched to a halt right at the edge of the loading dock, spraying grass and dirt.  Sirens continued to blare, louder and shriller, drilling into ears.  Doors slammed open in rapid succession.  Angry officers poured out like a flood, shouting orders as they moved in perfect, terrifying synchronization. Their guns were drawn, all trained on four kids.

The police had surrounded Willa and the Pogues—for real this time.

The Deveraux daughter's body was stiff with trepidation, assessing her newfound surroundings as quickly as she could. At the forefront of the advancing officers stood a furious Deputy Shoupe. Yet it was not him that drew her focus necessarily.  No, it was the man beside him, clad in a dark windbreaker with the letters SBI stitched across the breast.  Behind him, a phalanx of his own officers, all dressed in padded gear and tactical helmets, followed. They carried assault rifles.

"Hands up! Hands up!" the SBI investigator shouted at the four, unarmed teens standing isolated on the dock.

Kiara was already raising her hands slowly.  Willa followed suit, lifting her scarred hands to the sky, her fingers splayed wide as she stared at the sea of officers closing in around them. She had no choice but to comply, to stay alive.

Out of nowhere, a brash thought flitted through her mind: Thank God I gave John B. the gun. She did not dare imagine what might have happened if the SBI officers had seen it on her.

Meanwhile, on Willa's other side, JJ's jaw naturally clenched upon realizing he was cornered. His eyes flashed with anger, but even he, too, knew better than to challenge the several guns now aimed in their direction.  His hands went up—though the motion still managed to exude a bitter reluctance.

Pope, however, was as still as a statue. His charcoal eyes darted darkly from the officers to his friends.  A startled gasp escaped Kiara as she looked back at him, like she could read his thoughts and did not like where they were going. "Pope, hands!" she reminded him with a hiss. Once more, only Kiara's words seemed to snap Pope Heyward back into reality. His hands jerked up, even though his expression remained stricken, guarded.

Willa's attentive focus flicked back to Shoupe as well. His beady eyes scanned the crowded dock, his worn features taut with fatigue and frustration. He looked like a man on the verge of a rage-induced meltdown, his anger only amplified by sleepless nights and mounting pressure. Susan Peterkin was dead. His sheriff, his friend—and he was not just looking for answers. He was looking for someone to punish.

He looked suspiciously at the teenagers—the supposed aiders of a supposed murderer—and then to the muddy SUV awkwardly backed near the water, its front end horribly dented. It was a dead giveaway of their involvement in John B.'s escape.

Shoupe's lips twisted into a snarl. "We're too late. He's gone." He slammed his fist against his thigh. "God damn it!" His eyes snapped to the head SBI investigator whose gun was still trained on the surrendered Willa, JJ, Kiara, and Pope. "Bratcher," he called. "Have your guys stand down. Let me talk to these kids."

Bratcher seemed to hesitate, like he was trying to figure out just how much control he could allow a meager deputy to take. But then his dark eyes narrowed back to the teens, and he finally gave a curt nod. "Stand down," he ordered his men.

The rifles lowered. Though the threats did not.

"All right, where the hell is he?"

Shoupe stepped forward, his steel-toed boots thudding heavily against the wooden planks of the dock.  His focus zeroed in on JJ first. "Where the hell is he?" he demanded again, harsher that time. He spoke as if his tone would actually do anything to scare the teenagers—the same teenagers who had already been traumatized several times over by people much, much worse.

Because of that, JJ did not blink. He did not flinch. He did not even acknowledge the man's general presence. Not even when Shoupe stood close enough that Willa could see the deputy's spittle flying. "JJ? I see you're living up to your name."

Again, the Maybank boy stayed silent.

Shoupe's jaw ticked, and he turned sharply, his eyes locking on the Heyward son next. "Pope, how about you? This isn't a fucking game! You can do the right thing now! Where'd John B. go?"

Pope's lips pressed into a firm line. Just like JJ, he stared straight ahead, refusing to engage.

Shoupe spat out a bitter laugh. "Real cute. Solidarity, huh?" His gaze then shifted again, this time landing on Willa. "And what about you, Deveraux?" He took a step closer, his boots inches from her feet. His voice turned quieter, more sinister. "I've got your father on speed dial."

Yeah, you and half the fucking island, Shoupe, Willa thought to say.

But she kept her tongue. Barely.

"You want me to make that call?" he challenged her.

Willa's fingers flexed into fists briefly before relaxing again. It was the only betrayal of her own irritation, of her own answer. Shoupe noticed, and his nostrils flared. He knew she would not break. She could almost hear the unspoken, unfair thoughts running through his head. Despite her own respectable upbringing, she was already too far gone, "tainted" by the Pogues.

Shoupe exhaled an exasperated sigh and stepped back. "Fine. I guess it's not going to be that easy." He turned to the officers behind him, still stationed at the dock's edge. He motioned them forward. "Get them in the cars. Now."

The Kildare County Police officers moved quickly, descending on the teens. There were no cuffs, no searches, just rough hands and gruff commands as Willa and Kiara were herded in one direction and JJ and Pope in another. None of them spoke—not a word, not a protest, not even when they understood they were being separated.  The world moved too quickly.  For once. For them.  Reality had brutally, finally, caught up, and it hit Willa, Kiara, Pope, and JJ hard.

Their treasure hunt. Their summer. Their lives. It was all truly over.

Willa dared a peek over her shoulder and caught one last image of JJ and Pope being shoved into a different cop car. Then a hand landed firmly on her own shoulder, forcing her attention forward again. She barely registered the shove that propelled her into the back seat of a police car alongside Kiara. The door slammed shut behind them, its thud echoing like a cell door locking them away.

Minutes later, Deputy Thomas slid into the driver's seat. He did not look at the two girls in his backseat directly, only catching their reflections in the rearview mirror. Even through the glass, his disdain was clear. "You kids really think you're going to get away with this?" he snapped at them. "You think John B.'s out there on that water, free? You're dreaming. He's not going to get far, and you can bet on that."

Willa only rolled her eyes. She could not let him see how much his words actually rattled her.

Without another word, the police cruiser jolted forward and began pulling away from the dock. She stared through the tinted glass around her, and her fingers tightened on the edge of her leather seat as unsettling questions she did not want to ever answer began to infiltrate her head.

What would they do to her? To Kiara? To JJ and Pope? Would they be thrown into separate jail cells? Would they be forced through harsh interrogations from Bratcher? Would they be used against each other? If so, would one of them break and tell the truth?

Her spiraling thoughts fractured as Kiara's hand slid back over hers, squeezing tightly. Willa turned to her friend, startled, but the look in Kiara's eyes stopped her short. Her auburn eyes were blazing calm.

That look was all the reassurance Willa needed. The answers to her fears came rushing in with sudden clarity. They would not break. She and the Pogues had lied, schemed, and fought their way through every impossible situation. They had already risked so much, walked headlong into danger for each other, over and over again. They would not stop now—not when it mattered most. They would never give John B. up.

What was one more lie?

They had already built an entire house of lies, so what difference did one more really make, especially when it meant protecting someone who meant everything to them?

Willa closed her eyes and let out a slow breath as the police car picked up speed, the dirt road blurring into the darkening distance. It had been an endless series of fires she and the Pogues barely escaped from since the murder of Sheriff Peterkin and the wrongful blaming of John B. Routledge. But they had made it this far.

They could make it a little farther.

➸➸➸

DEPUTY SHOUPE HAULED WILLA, Kiara, Pope, and JJ to the far north side of the island. The tourist hotspot, with its picturesque red-and-white lighthouse and sprawling beaches, had been transformed into a fortress.  Kildare County's finest, joined by SBI operatives in riot gear, had commandeered the area as their makeshift headquarters.  Yet, they were not the only ones to occupy the space.  Now, cameras from nosy local news stations flashed, reporters shouted questions as important-looking people passed, and curious locals loitered at the edges of caution tape, eager to see any action go down at all.

Every obstacle and irritation imaginable converged here, a tidal wave of mayhem crashing down over the Point.

Yes. The Point.

Of all fucking places.

The one location John B.'s getaway route would inevitably lead him to.

His only chance now lay in Hurricane Danielle.  The storm, which had been building all day, had finally arrived in full force.  The tropical cyclone ripped across a darkened Kildare with powerful winds that screamed like banshees.  Rain slashed sideways against the canvas roof of the police tent—a glorified, makeshift holding center—that Willa now found herself in.

Gratefully, at least, she was not alone. After two brutal hours of separate interrogations, being grilled by Shoupe and Bratcher in turn, she, Kiara, JJ, and Pope were together again. Each of them was dirty, drenched, and visibly worn from the ordeal. Yet there was a collective feeling within their shared exhaustion. It was not relief, exactly, but something close to it. Something like—they had made it.

It was a miracle, really. Willa still could not wrap her head around how they had managed to keep their stories straight.  Not one crack.  Not one slip.  But, ultimately, the miracle stopped there.  Reunited or not, they were not free.  The police were not letting them out of their sight, and the officer assigned to guard them was the last person they expected to ever see again.

It was Officer Michelle Plumb.

She really was alive.

The very person that Willa and the Pogues had nearly mowed down in their downtown escape two nights prior was now here, breathing and standing—albeit with a new limp—in the same space as them.  A small part of Willa wanted to feel relief at the sight of Plumb—relief that she had not died because of them.  But the larger, more practical part of her accepted Plumb's survival was not a blessing.  Because if she still drew breath, that meant there was one more angry officer hellbent on revenge.  There was one more enemy standing in John B.'s way.

Willa shifted uneasily on her damp seat, her eyes flicking toward the tent's opening. The wind howled louder, carrying with it the crashing of waves below and the constant static hum of police radios.  Reporters outside continued their frantic coverage, their voices rising as they speculated about John B.'s status.

But despite all the noises Willa could hear, she could not really see much of anything.  Thanks to Hurricane Agatha, power was still down across the island, leaving the generator-powered lights at the police encampment weak and flickering. Little beyond the Point itself was actually illuminated.  That included the ocean, which was swallowed by the pitch-black night.

Somewhere out there, beyond the shallow beams of searchlights, John B. could be slicing through the waves, just out of reach.  Willa's heart quickened at the thought.  He could be so close.  Her eyes strained against the squall's shroud, silently begging the darkness to keep its secrets—the Pogues' secrets—just a little longer.  As long as it held, John B. had a chance.

Eventually, her gaze drifted back to Kiara, Pope, and JJ.  Each of her friends looked as drained as she felt with deep, dark shadows under their eyes.  She tried to focus on them, to ground herself in their presence. Just them. Only them.

But as her eyes lingered on Pope's slumped shoulders, something caught her attention through the entryway of the tent.

A flicker.

A tiny glow, faint and far-off at first.

Then another.

And another.

The blood in Willa's veins turned ice-cold with realization. Lights were coming back on. Power was being restored to the entire island.

And then, as if the universe itself cruelly conspired against them, the Point's lighthouse roared to life.  Its rejuvenated, towering beam of light sliced through the cyclone, its blinding arc sweeping across the Atlantic Ocean, cutting the night in two.  Willa did not even have time to rightfully react before shouts from outside the tent broke through the rising panic in her mind.

"That's John B.! There he is!"

"There's someone with him!"

"It's a girl!"

Then, louder still:

"It's the Phantom!"

"They're trying to escape!"

The many different cries hit the Deveraux daughter like bitter punches, like caustic bullets, one after the other, each deadlier than the last. Then, she was on her feet, her legs moving without thought.  Unknowingly, JJ was right behind her, and together they pushed toward the tent's edge, toward the manic voices and madness spilling in from outside.

The Point was a whirlwind of driving rain and hectic, boundless noise.  Flashlights darted across the dark, drenched beach. Officers shouted orders at one another, scrambling to reorganize, their voices otherwise barely audible over the pounding surf.  And then, through brief, flashes of lightning, Willa saw them.  Barely visible against the roiling black ocean were two young teenagers, teetered precariously on The Phantom's slippery deck.

John B.

And Sarah.

Willa's breath hitched. A lump formed in her throat as she watched the two of them in the distance, just within the reach of the blinding, artificial light of Kildare's only lighthouse. At the farthest point of the island, at the end of everything, at the very edge of the world, they had found each other again.

The lighthouse beam swept away, and The Phantom's silhouette shifted. The small boat veered sharply south. Willa's stomach dropped as understanding dawned: they were abandoning the route to Dismal Swamp. And the reason was obvious. Six Kildare County patrol boats—six—had lurched from the Point's shore.  The officers aboard were carving a path through the thrashing waves to converge on The Phantom, readying to make chase.

They were going to drive John B. and Sarah blindly into the tropical storm. Into deep, dark, unforgiving waters.

"No!" Willa cried out. "Just let them go!"

She lunged forward, desperate to get out of the tent, to find Shoupe—to find anyone that could stop this deadly ambush—but Plumb's hand locked firmly around her shoulder, yanking her back. JJ was still beside her, trying to push past as well, but the same hand that held Willa also shoved him back, forcing both of them to drop into their seats beside Kiara and Pope.

"Stay down!" Officer Plumb snapped at them before they could protest. "Stay down, now!"

Willa's gasps started in short, frantic bursts, her chest rising and falling unevenly. Her ribs felt like they might crack under the sudden pressure in her lungs. Every sound outside the tent—the thunder's roar, the gale's scream, the wail of more sirens, the voice of an officer shouting through a bullhorn—blurred into the pounding of her fearful heart.  Her thoughts spun helplessly.  She could barely breathe, as though a capture was closing in on her next, and all she could do was sit there, locked in place by invisible chains.

Each passing second stretched unbearably, time crawling as though to mock their helplessness. Beside her, Kiara sat pale and trembling, her lower lip quivering as though she were already biting back a sob. Pope's charcoal eyes remained glued to the tent's opening, fixed on the storm, on John B. and Sarah's last known location, as they vanished into the heart of it.  They were chasing freedom, but they had no idea how much danger they were really in.

And JJ—JJ was unravelling.  His fingers twitched nervously, his leg bouncing in a jerky rhythm that seemed to vibrate through the small space. His restlessness radiated outward, infecting Willa like a fever. It picked at the edges of her sanity.

The storm raged on.

And on.

An entire hour passed.

No answers came.

Willa's mind slipped further.

And then—

The tent's flap was ripped open.

Rain blasted through the opening, the island's breeze shrieking louder than ever.  Two drenched figures stomped inside, their neon-yellow raincoats clinging to their bodies, water dripping in streams from the edges of their sleeves. It was Deputies Shoupe and Thomas.

JJ was the first to move, springing to his feet like a coiled wire snapping loose. His shoulders were squared, his hands flexed at his sides, automatically glaring at Shoupe like he wanted to fight the entire system right there, right then.

Kiara and Pope followed, standing stiffly.  They hovered uncertainly behind JJ, tense.  Braced for the worst.

Willa stood last.  Her gaze fixed on Shoupe, and for a moment, the typhoon outside seemed to still.  Her stomach twisted uneasily.  Something was wrong—deeply wrong.

Shoupe would not meet her eyes.

He did not look at JJ, Kiara, or Pope either.  Instead, he stood there, hands on his hips, scanning the sparse tent like he was already searching for an escape route. Willa had never seen him like this before.  He was not the cocky, self-assured deputy who always acted like he held the upper hand around them.  Now, he looked . . . ashamed.  It was like he already knew he had failed the teenagers.

Pope was the first to shatter the heavy quiet with a single question:

"Did you find them?"

Shoupe's head shook slowly, mechanically. "No."

Kiara sucked in a breath. She leaned forward slightly, her expression hopeful. "So, they got away?"

The four young teenagers could not help but exchange glances, their eyes flickering between one another, grasping for a shred of clarity.  But none of them could give it to another. None of them knew.  And yet, as Willa continued to stare at Shoupe, she felt an icy certainty bloom in her breast, spreading like frost over her heart.  She suspected she already knew the truth.

Shoupe's gaze shifted, still avoiding theirs—like it was a sin to even look at them. "We, uh . . ." He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. "We lost them. I'm sorry."

Willa's entire body locked into place.

What?

Pope's breathing quickened. "You lost them?" he repeated. "What do you mean you lost them? Like they're . . . they're gone?" His words came faster, his voice rising, growing shriller with each syllable.  He shook his head like he could physically reject their meanings as quickly as they flew off his tongue.

Shoupe shifted uncomfortably. "They took an open boat into a tropical depression, Pope."

Kiara's gathering tears spilled before she could stop them, rolling down her round cheeks. "So . . . so they're dead?" Her voice cracked on the last word.

Willa's vision blurred. The edges of the tent seemed to warp and spin. Her fingers reached blindly to her left and gripped the edge of a plastic fold-out table, her grip tightening until her knuckles burned. No. No. No.  She tried to reconcile the horror of what she was hearing. John B. and Sarah were only supposed to be caught—not this. Not lost. Not dead.

Shoupe hesitated for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he licked his lips, his tone dropping into an infuriating calm. "We don't know," he said.

Willa flinched as if struck. "You don't know?" she blurted. "How can you not know? How could you lose them in the first place?!"

"You drove them straight into the storm, man!" JJ exploded from behind her. His accusing eyes burned with the same indignation as Willa's, his expression contorted into the same erratic, violent disbelief.

Together, the Maybank son and Deveraux daughter ignited like ruinous matches.

"This is your fault!" Willa screamed madly at Shoupe. "You're supposed to protect people! That's your job! You were supposed to stop this—to stop them from dying!" Her hands flew to her head, shaking uncontrollably as hot tears spilled down her cheeks, scalding against her skin.

JJ snapped. "Come here, I'm going to kill you!" he bellowed, launching himself at Shoupe with a feral cry.  His fists swung wildly, his grief and fury boiling over into pure, physical wrath that had no other outlet. "I'm going to kill you, you bastard!"

Shoupe stumbled backward, but before JJ could land a solid blow, Deputies Thomas and Plumb rushed forward, their hands grappling to restrain him. But JJ thrashed and fought them with everything he had, his desperation to hurt something—to make someone else feel his pain—radiating from every savage movement.

"You killed them!" Pope wailed at their backs. He had begun to pace in frenzied, tight circles, his hands clenching and unclenching. His eyes were wide, wild with the truth that was destroying him, that was costing them all the lives of their friends.  "John B. didn't kill anyone, and you know it! You killed him!"

Kiara crumpled.  There was no one in the tent to catch her, no person to keep her upright as her tears flowed freely.  She curled into herself, her shoulders heaving through such painful, agonizing sorrow.

And Willa . . . perhaps forgotten, perhaps the quietest griever . . . she still stood frozen in place beside the table, like the whole world had tipped over and she was left dangling over its edge. She was ready to let go. Her head shook mindlessly.

No, no, no, no, no.

JJ's livid curses, Kiara's mournful sobs, and Pope's delirious shouts blended into a cacophony of anguish and heartbreak.  But Willa could not stay in it. She could not breathe in it. Her trembling legs moved on instinct, urging her toward the other side of the tent, toward the only place where she could still think, where she could still hope.

Hurricane Danielle greeted the Deveraux daughter like a slap to the face.  Wind whipped at her hair, and rain stung her heated skin as she stumbled to the edge of the tent's entrance.  Her wide, desperate eyes immediately began to search the darkness where she knew the far-off Atlantic Ocean to be. The last time she had looked, they had been there—John B. and Sarah.

Willa's heart lurched as she strained to see anything.  As she tried to convince herself that they were still out there, that they had made it, that the hurricane had not claimed their lives.  She tried to cling to the idea that somehow, some way, they had gotten away.  But when the lighthouse beam swung back across the water, cutting through the night, it illuminated that same spot again.

Within it, The Phantom was gone. There were no startled teenagers, trapped in a spotlight. There was no rushed movement, a last-minute decision to flee.  No, there was nothing but the rough, angry sea swallowing the memory whole.

And then, there was also a voice. It was one that she had almost forgotten, one that now called her name from behind.

"Willa!"

The Deveraux daughter turned slowly, half-expecting to see a ghost.

She thought she must be imagining it. She had not seen him in days—had not even known where he was, if he was safe.

Cruz Deveraux stood in the entryway of the police tent, soaked to the bone. Rain plastered his short, black hair to his forehead, and his dark clothes clung to his lean frame. He looked almost unrecognizable—not in appearance, but in presence.  The boy she remembered from only a week ago, who lit up at finding the island's best parties or competed with Rayne to be the loudest in the family room, was long gone.  Now, his black gaze was piercing. It was knowing.

A cold tremor slid down Willa's spine.

Cruz had been outside. He had seen the entire night unfold, standing behind the barrier of caution tape and flashing lights. He had likely watched the ocean swallow John B. and Sarah up, their daring escape cut short by a storm too brutal to outrun.  But unlike Willa, Cruz had not lied to himself in the aftermath.  He did not need the comfort of false hope.  He had not spent useless time convincing himself that his friends could have somehow made it, that they might still be alive.

No, Cruz looked at Willa like he was the truth.  The merciless truth she had been running from ever since Sheriff Peterkin's cold-blooded murder had damned them all.

Because maybe, just maybe, Cruz had been searching for her across Kildare all this time, day and night, just like Ace. But where their other brother hunted her with selfish, cruel intent, Cruz's pursuit had been different. He was not looking to ambush her. He was not looking to hurt her.  He was trying to save her.  From herself.  From the denial she told to stay afloat.  From the naïve hope where she actually believed that a happy ending could prevail against the wreckage of this story.

Willa felt that truth now, staring back at her through her little brother's eyes. And in that next fractured exhale, the cold finality of July—her actions, their consequences—broke her wide open.

John B. Routledge was dead. Sarah Cameron was dead.

The words echoed like a death knell until her knees buckled beneath her. She did not even feel herself falling, but Cruz was there. He caught her before she hit the wet ground, his arms wrapping around her tightly, even as her body convulsed wildly.  Willa buried her face in his soaked shoulder, her cries tearing out of her like jagged shards of glass.  They came in waves.  They were guttural.  They were raw.  They were the sounds of a soul breaking apart, piece by piece.

Cruz did not say a word. He did not need to. His arms were enough.

Because he was not just Willa's little brother anymore. He was the last Deveraux who had not turned his back on her. The only one who had come for her, even after everything—after her mistakes, her blatant rebellion, the blood on her hands.

He was there at the Point for her. When no one else in their family had been.

And Willa broke. Completely.

Her sobs rose louder, sharper, until she was wailing.

Her friends were dead.

Through the haze of her tears, Willa's gaze drifted back, unwillingly, into the police tent.  The scene unfolding inside only twisted the knife already lodged deep in her chest.

Kiara's parents had arrived. They knelt beside their daughter, who still lay crumpled on the wet ground, broken beyond words. Mike held her tightly, his arm locked protectively around her as he smoothed her hair with soothing hands. Anna gently tilted Kiara's tear-streaked face upward, her voice soft and pleading, urging her daughter to breathe. But Kiara could not. Her sobs were shattered, interrupted by the same words repeated over and over like a mantra, a curse:  "They're dead. They're dead. They're dead."  Her parents could only nod, their own tears spilling as they confirmed their daughter's worst nightmare.

Then came Pope's parents.  Despite the fight on the boardwalk earlier—the angry, hurtful words, the kind that left wounds long after they were said—Mr. Heyward was there. He was there for his son.  He and Mrs. Heyward folded Pope into their arms, and the boy broke against his mother's shoulder, his muffled sobs mingling with tearful apologies. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."  His words came out in gasps, but neither parent corrected him, did not dare suggest he had anything to apologize for right now.

And then Willa saw JJ.

He stood at the edge of the tent, alone, his hands hanging limply at his sides. His face was ashen. He was not struggling against Shoupe or Thomas or Plumb anymore. He was not shouting, was not moving at all.  The fight, the fire that usually burned so bright within him, was gone.  Snuffed out like a dying ember.

Because his own father was not there. Luke Maybank, the one person who should have been there for his son—who should have held him in that moment—was nowhere to be found.  And so, JJ grieved in silence, tears slipping down his cheeks as he mourned the death of his very best friend all by himself.

Willa felt the sting of it—of seeing him so hurt, so lost. She wanted to reach out to him, to pull him into her arms and promise him that he was not alone.  But the distance between them felt insurmountable then.  The chasm of her own grief, of her own pain, yawned too wide, was too dark to possibly bridge with another's.

She could only stand there, Cruz's arms still wrapped around her, as she watched Pope's parents step forward. They opened their arms to the boy who had so often sought solace in their store, in their home, in their love—and wrapped themselves around JJ as though he belonged to them as much as Pope did.

JJ did not resist.  His face crumpled as he folded into Mr. Heyward's big chest, his shoulders shaking as he let himself fall apart in the safety of their embrace.  Willa felt her own tears spill faster as she watched him find the comfort he had been denied for so long.

But then, the air beneath the canvas shifted.

Through the grieving, entwined Pogue families, two new figures stepped inside the tent. Willa's body stiffened in Cruz's arms as her watery glare snapped toward the shadowy entrance.

It was their parents.

Maren and Alden Deveraux hovered just inside the tent flap, an oversized black umbrella shielding them from the torrential downpour that had drenched everyone else. Their clothes were pristine—too clean, too polished. They did not look like parents racing through a tropical cyclone to reach their child.  They looked like attendees arriving late to a fundraiser, momentarily inconvenienced but still above the pandemonium surrounding them.

Willa's pulse thundered in her ears. It was not the shock of her parents that froze her; it was knowing what their presence meant.  Under the stares of so many onlooking families, Maren and Alden would don their masks.  They would pretend to care and console their daughter.  To anyone watching, they would look like concerned, devoted parents. The illusion would be flawless.  But Willa knew the truth.

The moment they were alone, the masks would slip. The performance would end, and their cutting degradations would begin.

They would make Willa pay for such foolishness, for the family's shame, for the way she had dared to step out of line. They would tear into her, reminding her of every rule she had broken, every mistake she had made, and every way she had tarnished the Deveraux name's carefully crafted image. She could hear every question compiled already:

What on earth has gotten into you?  How could you let it get this far?  How could you embarrass us like this?  Do you have any idea what you have done?

Maren's forest-green eyes locked onto her daughter first. Her mother's pointed gaze narrowed further as she stepped forward, the squelch of her heels mashing into the damp ground. The faint scent of her perfume—citrus and vanilla, too sweet, too sickly for their surroundings—clashed with the rain-soaked misery of the tent.  Willa barely had time to disentangle herself from her little brother's hold before Maren's manicured hand shot out, latching onto her bicep. The new touch was not comforting. It was not reassuring. It was possessive.  A reminder of control.

"Willa."

A soothing calling to strangers.  A scolding condemnation to a sixteen-year-old girl.

Then Alden stepped forward, his tall, immovable body eclipsing Willa's view of everything else. The hurricane outside, the broken faces of her friends, even Cruz, who was pushed to the side—all of it was erased as he positioned himself in front of her, a wall between her and her world. His presence swallowed her whole, blocking out even the oxygen, until it felt like there was nothing left but him and his disapproval.

He did not speak. Instead, he removed his jacket, shaking off imaginary raindrops before draping it over Willa's bare shoulders as if that gesture alone could fix her, make her presentable again, mold her back into something acceptable.

Maren and Alden did not ask if Willa was okay. They did not ask what she needed or what had happened. They did not see her as a person. Not as their daughter. Not as someone who was hurting.

She was a stain. A problem to be cleaned up and hidden away.

All Maren had to say was, "Let's go."

Willa did not want to move. What she wanted to do was scream, to rip her arm free from her mother's iron grasp, to fall back down into the mud and tell them that she was not going anywhere. Not with them. But her voice was gone. Her strength had deserted her, too. Her parents' expectations were simply too much; they were a tide that dragged her under, again and again.

And so, with tears streaked on her lifeless face, a heart that had become cold and dead inside her chest, Willa let Maren and Alden take her home.

As they led her toward the tent's exit, away from Kiara, Pope, JJ, and their families who loved them so fiercely and so freely, her body moved as if on autopilot, her legs following her parents' lead like a marionette controlled by unseen strings. Willa's spirit was crushed. Flattened. This was what it felt like to drown.

In the silence of her own head, all she could hear behind her was the continuous pounding of the storm, the endless, deafening roar of the waves. Somewhere out there, that sea had claimed John B. and Sarah, pulling them into its cold, lonely depths.

Now, Willa Deveraux was going under, too.

~~~~~~~~~~

ahhhhhhhh this chapter was so, so much.  i actually lowkey think i hate it, though.  of all the emotions i ever write, grief is so hard to describe.  but i feel like that actually reflects real-life?  anyway, i hope i did this chapter somewhat justice.  it was a lot.

literally.  i nearly wrote 10,000 words.  this is my longest chapter i've ever written.  let's give it some love.  let's talk!

so, what are we all thinking about miss willa?  this was a tough chapter in a lot of ways for her.  from saying goodbye to john b., from being unable to save him, from being unable to even grieve properly once her parents arrive... speaking of... how many predicted they would actually show up to the tent?  how many predicted that cruz, sweet baby boy cruz, would finally make a reappearance?

also, there's an intention behind the lack of deveraux siblings really.  willa is supposed to be essentially engulfed in this life with the pogues; she doesn't think it's a bad thing, but for everyone else, they truly have every reason to be concerned.  like pope, she is throwing her life away in a whole different regard, especially in the eyes of maren and alden.  but at alas, that is the trouble with teenagers.  they really think they have the world figured out.  and it's so so fun having willa discover that balance, to push those boundaries.

however, now she's finally caught.  now, she's finally going home.  what are your predictions for the final chapter of season one?  anything you'd like to see?? i'd love to hear them!! a lot of still going to go down :')

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.