25. Max

25MAX

Sleep is a lost cause. Even without the storm raging outside, there would still be Graham—sitting on his bed with the guitar like he’s in a trance, playing, humming, scratching something down in his notebook and doing it all over again. He’s been at it ever since he sulked back into our room from who knows where.

Rolling onto my side, I reach for my glasses and check my watch. Eleven thirty. Jesus, I’ve been in bed for over an hour, and I’m still wide awake.

I sit up, trying my best to sound calm and friendly. “Hey, man, I’m trying to sleep. Would you mind—”

Graham sets his guitar down next to him, harder than he should. “You really think you’re more important than everyone else, don’t you?”

My brain short-circuits for half a second. “Too tired for this” has never been a more accurate statement.

“I don’t see how wanting to go to sleep makes me—”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Graham works his jaw. “You think you’re this, like, moral figure because you make documentaries, but all you’re really doing is profiting off of people who are doing things.”

Even dead tired, I’m not going to let that slide without pushing back.

“It’s not about the profit,” I tell him. “It’s about—”

“Exposing people. Telling the truth. Whatever. But you make money off it, don’t you? With Jared Sky, your big catfishing reveal. How much money did you make from the ads on that one?”

An uneasy feeling comes over me, slow and crawling.

“I don’t know the exact number,” I say. “But I get it, okay? I’m not an artist. I’m not trying to be. I make documentaries. You make music. But you really don’t have to prove that point, like, right now.”

Graham shoots to his feet, and I shrink back. The missing gun flashes in my head.

“Yes, I do,” he says. “I have to finish this song. I don’t have time.”

I wish that comment didn’t freak me out so much.

“Come on,” I tell him. “You’re not going to die.”

“My friends are dead!” Graham snaps, and there it is—the complete lack of logic in my own argument, loud and undeniable. “The only people who ever made me feel like I belong anywhere are dead, and Logan—” His voice breaks. He takes off his beanie, digging his hands through his hair. “The point is, if someone’s next, it’s going to be me.”

I want to ask him what he means about Logan, if anything happened after their fight earlier, but I’m worried any more questions might send him over the edge.

“Maybe if you try to just go to sleep—”

“You don’t get it.” He sits back on his bed. “We’re running out of time. Even before all this, people were already getting bored of the Bounce House. Like, yeah, we were big for a while, but even now, people are over it. The whole TikTok house thing. Why the hell do you think we all came here?” He wrings his beanie in his hands. “And they all knew their next move. Zane. McKayleigh. Even Logan. It’s all about the next move. I mean, you should know. You need your next story. That’s why you’re shoving that camera at everyone all the time, right?”

I don’t answer. He’s right again, and I don’t like it.

Graham tosses the hat aside, burying his face in his hands. “I spent so much time letting Zane tell me what to do instead of just making music. And now I might die here. I might actually…” His head snaps back up. He grabs his guitar. “I need to finish the songs.”

Thunder claps, making me tense up.

“Okay, but you’re nineteen,” I tell him. “You don’t have to have your whole life figured out. And honestly, there are more important things to deal with right now.”

The gun, for example. And the fact that someone here might actually be killing people. It’s ridiculous, now, that I thought I’d ever be able to sleep tonight.

Graham laughs humorlessly. “Thanks, but you still don’t get it.” He starts to strum again, but then stops. “I have three million followers. And I’m not trying to be a jerk, I’m just—that’s where I’m at. I can only go down from here. And if I’m not putting out something new, I’m over. There’s a hundred other sixteen-year-olds on TikTok with fresher faces and better songs who could steal my whole career in the next two years. Just watch.”

I stare, dumbstruck. In a way, I know how it feels. I’ve been posting documentaries for years, but until the Jared Sky one, none of them got more than a couple thousand views. And then everything changed overnight—and not in that hyperbolic way people always say. I mean literally, I posted the video, and the next morning, my phone was blowing up with follows and interview requests and gratitude.

But then, once the glow of all that faded, there was the panic, rising like a flood. Because the truth is, as much as I hate it when people like Aaron tell me I’m only riding off my parents’ success, I know they’re sort of right. I never would have been able to get that interview with Jared, the one where I laid out my evidence and cracked him open, if he hadn’t been a guest on my dad’s show first. If Dad hadn’t set up the interview, claiming I was an aspiring YouTuber who wanted advice. Since then, I’ve had this itching need to prove that I can do this on my own. That I know what’s next. And the longer it takes me, the closer I feel to drowning.

“And once that happens,” Graham goes on, “once we’re done, then we turn into Aaron. Over at twenty-one. Making a sad YouTube channel and doing hair-loss ads for the rest of our lives.” His face crumples. “I’d rather die. I’d literally rather die than be that.”

“I think…” I start, but I don’t know what I think. I don’t know anything except that I can’t sleep, can’t just lie here when something this big and terrifying is happening. Someone brought us here to expose us, maybe even to kill us, and I need to do what I do best: get to the bottom of it.

I climb out of bed. “I’m going to go get some water. Just—try to chill out. Okay? It’ll be fine.”

I don’t wait for him to answer, because we both know that was a bullshit thing to say. We don’t know if it’ll be fine. We don’t know if we’ll wake up in the morning, if there will be more messages or another body, but I’m not going to wait here until that happens. I grab my camera bag and open the door.

Footsteps thud down the stairs. I grip the banister. Someone was just here, turning the corner. I can’t see who, but someone was listening.

Thunder booms, and I scramble downstairs. Shadows of palm trees wave on the wall like fingers, warped by lightning. I stop at the second floor, my heart hammering. Tightening my grip on the strap of my bag, I look down over the balcony at the first floor. We left all the lights on, so I can see it all: the living room, the kitchen, the rain slamming against the windows.

A hooded figure sliding the back doors open and running out onto the patio.

Turn around.My basic human survival instinct screams at me to go back, take my chances with Graham. I’ve seen enough movies to know that nothing good happens on stormy islands at night, or to the idiots who follow mysterious figures out into the dark.

But I can’t make myself turn around. Instead, I unzip my bag and take out the camera, brushing off the waterproof surface. If what’s happening on this island is more than a series of bad coincidences, if there’s really someone behind it, one of us … then this is my chance to turn this documentary into something huge. Something that changes everything.

I creep down the stairs, stopping at the storage closet to find a flashlight, and then out onto the patio. Adrenaline pulses through me as I step past Zane’s body, trying to forget it’s there, and click on the light. All I can see is the water shifting, crashing against the sand—and then there: something moving again, a figure running from the patio to the other side of the house.

I break into a sprint. They’re fast, smaller than me, but the rain’s a blinding sheet. I pull off my useless glasses, shove them in my pocket, and press RECORD. The figure runs faster, veering around the house and toward the terrace.

“Hey!” I yell.

They skid to a stop and spin around, the hood flying off to reveal a tight ponytail and wide brown eyes.

Kira, a knife glinting in her hand. One from the kitchen, the kind you use for raw meat.

I hold up my hands, the camera still gripped and filming in my right one.

“What are you doing out here?” she asks.

“I’m—”

Her stare locks on my camera bag, fear flashing in her eyes, and I understand.

“I don’t have the gun,” I say. “You can go through my bag. You can even look through my pockets. I just—it’s pouring. Can we go inside?”

Lightning flashes, turning the sky a sickly purple. For a few seconds, she watches me. Then, she lowers the knife.

“The pool house,” she says, glancing behind her. “Not the main one. And turn off your camera.”

Before I can answer, Kira sprints off, and there’s nothing for me to do but follow her orders. Inside, I shut the door behind us, locking the storm out. Kira takes off her rain jacket and grabs two towels from a rack by the door. She wraps hers around her shoulders and stops short of handing me the other, staring suspiciously. She’s still gripping the knife.

“What were you doing out there?” she asks again.

“I’m…” I swallow, looking at the knife. “I’m having a hard time focusing with that thing, you know, brandished.”

She blinks like she’d forgotten it was there. “Sorry.” She sets it on the table. “I saw someone moving outside, and with the gun missing … it freaked me out. This whole thing is really freaking me out, which I guess is the biggest understatement of all time.”

“Here.” I hold out my camera bag. “You can go through it, if it’ll make you feel better.”

She takes the bag, unzips it, and looks around inside. It hurts that she still doesn’t trust me, but I can’t stand seeing her so scared. I didn’t realize it until now, but seeing how calm Kira has been through all of this might be the only thing that’s keeping me from breaking down.

When she’s done looking, Kira hands me the bag and the other towel. She’s close enough that I can smell her hair—something sweet, maybe coconut. Heat flushes through me, and I’m suddenly aware of my own heartbeat. We haven’t been alone together since this morning, when I apologized for recording her without permission.

“Thanks,” she says, when I’m still standing here like I forgot how to talk. “I don’t have it either, if you want to check.”

“No, I trust you.” I wrap the towel around my wet shoulders, wondering why my heart hasn’t calmed down yet, if I have some kind of medical issue. And then I remember what she said before. “Wait, you saw someone outside?”

“Yeah, I thought maybe…” She shakes her head. “But it was only you, I guess.”

“Wait, let me get my facts straight. You thought you saw a murderer, so you followed them outside with a knife?” I crack a smile. “That’s pretty badass, Lyons.”

“The knife was a panic decision.” She crosses her arms, looking up at me with that tough expression of hers. “And weren’t you doing the same thing? Running after a potential murderer with … a camera?”

“Okay, yeah. Clearly also a panic decision.” But then it hits me. My smile drops. “I wasn’t outside, though. I followed you out here.” She looks confused, which makes me even more uneasy. “You were outside of my room, weren’t you? I heard someone going down the stairs.”

Kira shakes her head, a line crinkling between her eyebrows. “I was downstairs when I thought I saw someone.”

Lightning flashes. Kira runs to the window. I look over her shoulder, but all I see is the pool, the water looking alien from the pool lights. The terrace, where Cole’s blood is drying between the stones. No one thought to clean it. I get a feeling like ice water trickling down my spine.

“Did you see someone?” I ask.

“No, I just thought…” She pulls the towel tighter around herself. “I think I’m starting to lose it.”

“It’s okay.” I move closer. “I mean, if there was ever a situation that merits losing it, it’s probably this one. Although I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t lose it, because…” I breathe out, my face getting warm. “You’re kind of the only person who’s been keeping me from losing it, and I have a cool tough-guy image to protect. You know, for the fans.”

A laugh softens her face, deepening the dimple in her cheek.

I pretend to look offended. “Wait, do you think I’m not a cool tough guy? Ouch.”

“Don’t worry. You have other redeeming qualities.”

“Like what?”

Kira looks up at me. She takes a breath, her dark lashes fluttering, and I can’t stop staring at her mouth, the soft curve of her lip.

Then, she goes back to the couch, picking at the arm of it like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. “Ask Elody. I bet she’s got a very long list.”

The warmth in my face turns into a full-on furnace. I look down at my shoes. “Yeah, like my sad, skinny arms. She made a huge deal about those when we got here.”

“She seemed pretty into them earlier.” Kira shrugs, starting to pull her wet hair out of her ponytail. It falls to her shoulders, brushing the edges of her collarbone, curling around her face, and I forget everything about kissing Elody.

I swallow. “I mean, she kind of trapped me into it.”

“You didn’t seem all that trapped.”

“I didn’t want to kiss her.” I falter. “I mean, maybe I did for a second, but it wasn’t—”

“Max, it’s fine.” She unwraps the towel and uses it to dry her hair. “I’m not judging you.”

“No, I…” I walk toward her, and she freezes, her dark eyes on me, and I think about what she said before, how we’re all just our middle-school selves, because that’s how I feel now—scrawny and scared, always tripping over my words. “I wanted the bottle to land on someone else.”

She’s quiet for too long.

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” I start. “I—”

Kira moves so quickly, I barely have time to register it. One second, she’s over there, and then her hand is on the back of my neck, and her mouth is on mine. The kiss is fast, too, small and soft, and for a second, I don’t know if that just happened or if this island is actually getting to me, Cast Away style.

“Sorry.” Kira steps back, touching her lips. “Was that—”

I take her free hand and pull her back to me, kissing her, and this isn’t a volleyball with a bloody face. It’s Kira, warm and real, with her careful fingers in my hair, mine tracing the back of her neck, the curve of her waist, wanting to feel all of her, to take my time, and this is different. So different. Elody kissed like she wanted to fight, pulling my hair and biting my lip so hard it almost hurt, but this is slow, like something unfolding, and I could keep doing this for I don’t even know how long.

Kira pulls away, her arms still locked around my shoulders. She bites her bottom lip, and Jesus Christ, I want to bite it, too. Instead, I brush my lips to her ear, looking at the knife on the couch.

“This wasn’t just an elaborate plan to get me alone and kill me, was it?” I ask.

She lets go.

“Shit,” I say. “Did I…?”

“No, no, you’re fine. It’s just…” She covers her face with her hands and makes this adorable sound, halfway between a groan and a laugh. “So, I liked that. A lot. But I haven’t ever, you know, done that before. Outside of spin the bottle, I guess.”

I raise my eyebrows, confused and a little honored but mostly shocked. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Not to be weird about it, but I’ve just never … gotten around to it.”

“It’s not weird.” I brush a drop of rain from her temple with my thumb. “I guess I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re…”

“Eighteen? Practically an old maid?”

“I was going to say beautiful.”

I feel her face get warm under my hand. She looks down, her thick eyelashes shadowing her face.

“I’ve always had to be careful. Growing up on TV, it’s so hard for things to be private, you know? So I guess it’s always been easier to just stay inside myself. Not do anything that could go wrong.”

I bring my other palm to her cheek, and she looks up at me.

“What makes you so sure things will go wrong?” I ask.

Gently, she covers my hands with her own and lifts them off of her face. My heart sinks a little. Her gaze shifts to the window.

“Look where we are,” she says. “This place is basically Murphy’s Law in island form.”

I laugh softly to fight through the fear jumping into my chest. “Okay, but this feels like a pretty extreme example.”

“I know, I just…”

I move closer. “What?”

She looks up at me, and everything blurs except for her eyes, my heart, and the anxious thought underscoring it all: Kira was running around outside with a knife. She could be a murderer, and for some reason, I don’t think I care.

“I don’t know if I want to go back out there,” Kira says. “To the house.”

“Me neither.”

“We could stay here.”

I suck air through my teeth. “Well, actually, I was really looking forward to falling asleep to Graham’s creepy guitar-playing tonight.”

She punches my shoulder. “Asshole.”

“Ow!” I make a show of rubbing my arm even though I kind of mean it. The girl’s got an arm. I laugh and kiss her softly. “Yes, fitness girl. There is literally nothing I would like more than to sleep in this pool house with you.”

The couch isn’t big enough for both of us, so we put some of the cushions on the floor and find a blanket in a wicker basket next to the TV. Thunder claps overhead, deafening, and Kira curls into my side, warm and smelling like something sweet and beachy.

It hits me that I’ve never done this before. Sleep with a girl, in the most innocent sense of the word—just sleeping, without anything more than kissing first, without expecting anything else after. Somehow, this has my heart beating even faster than if we were doing all of the other things. Just lying here, breathing, with the rain on the roof and the wind in the windows, the darkness outside making it feel like the pool house is its own world, like nothing else on the island can touch us—not the messages, the folders, the gun, or Graham’s words still ringing in my head.

One way or another, this is blowing up in all our faces.

I pull her closer and try to hold on to it. The hope that maybe Graham was wrong.

VIDEO FOOTAGE: NIGHT TWO, 2:03 AM

THIRD-FLOOR BEDROOM, CAMERA #2

[A HOODED FIGURE OPENS THE DOOR AND LOOKS AROUND THE EMPTY ROOM, PAUSING TO OBSERVE THE LIGHT EMANATING FROM THE LOCKED BATHROOM DOOR. THEY MOVE QUICKLY BUT CAREFULLY, CREEPING OVER TO A BED, CLIMBING ONTO IT, AND REACHING UP TO CAMERA #1 TO COVER THE LENS WITH A RAG. THEY APPROACH CAMERA #2, LOOKING UP INTO THE LENS. THEIR FACE IS OBSCURED BY THE HOOD, SUNGLASSES, AND A PIECE OF FABRIC WRAPPED AROUND THEIR MOUTH AND NOSE. THEY REACH UP WITH A RAG, AND THE CAMERA GOES DARK.]