Prologue

PROLOGUE

B loody sand coats my tongue as I crawl on the shore of Isla Cara.

The air smells thick and earthy as the storm approaches the island, and soon the winds and rain will wash away more of the sand and snap the palm trees like twigs.

It’s monsoon season, and a crack of lightning arcs across the night sky.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Thunder.

“You know why I had to do this. Right, Hunter?” Father sounds as if he’s sorry—remorseful.

I turn my head away from the ocean to stare at his bare feet. As he stands above me, his fists drip with blood.

My blood.

I try not to flinch when he crouches next to me.

“Hunter, you know it’s my responsibility to keep this family safe. To keep the Brigham name safe.”

I open my mouth to speak—to say what he wants me to say, which is that I understand—but a painful hacking cough is all that comes out.

Father curls his upper lip, disgust clear on his face.

He pulls a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his linen outfit, wiping his hands with slow precision.

“I don’t—” I start to speak, but the sharp ache in my ribs when I try to inhale and exhale stops me.

“I don’t know anything,” I spill. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I try to make him believe me. I call on everything he’s taught me about how to deceive: How to look like you’re telling the truth, even when you’re not.

But he’s the master at that game, just as he’s the master of everything.

Father sighs, and his face morphs. The mask falls.

“Get up.” He doesn’t need to yell. Menace is plain in his voice. I press my fingers into the sand, willing my body to rise. Father stands with a strong lunge, pulling me up with his broad hand anchored under my armpit.

I bite my lip to prevent a scream. More blood floods across my tongue.

He drags me across the sand and over to the stone steps that lead to the raised veranda. Yesterday, Father hosted a party with more than a dozen of his friends. Dignitaries, politicians, Hollywood movie stars.

Today, the space is empty—dead in the aftermath of all that happened on the marble floors.

I wish I could shake out the memories.

When we reach the landing, Father drops me to the floor, and I prevent my skull from cracking on the pavement at the last minute. I resist the urge to curl into a ball.

Father continues to walk away, heading toward the long bar at the center of the space.

Usually, Johan and a few other butlers would move around to serve the guests. The bar seats at least fifty people along the oval counter.

But now, Johan is dead.

Dead.

Dead because of me and my sin of the summer.

Father swipes his scotch from the bar. He takes a long sip, draining the glass, before he turns back to me.

Leaning against the counter, he crosses his ankles and arms in a casual pose.

Another bolt of lightning cracks across the sky.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Thunder.

“Let’s start over, Hunter,” Father says in a rush. He jerks his body straight and rubs his hand across his jaw as if in deep thought. “Perhaps I was a little…hasty in my discipline.”

My entire body pulses.

“I’m sure you’re scared, having to hold such a big secret.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any secrets,” I whisper. The lack of strength in my delivery should be from the waning energy in my body. Instead, it’s from the force of my lie.

Father continues as if I didn’t say anything. “Let’s try this again.”

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and takes three seconds to light one.

I coil tight. After he inhales the tobacco smoke and exhales in a haze, he begins to speak.

“Tell me what your mother has planned.”

I stare at him, ashamed that tears spring into my eyes. Mom trusts me. She needs me.

I force myself to lock my gaze on my father, but I don’t allow myself to see him. I see through him—to the past.

To all the people he’s hurt and killed.

The thick tropical air seems to vibrate, swirling around me.

There are so many people he’s made me hurt.

There are so many things he made me do.

I want it all to stop.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

When I’m silent for too long, Father sighs again and shakes his head.

“All right. Have it your way, Hunter.” Rolling his eyes, he reaches over the bar and pulls out the cordless phone. After a few taps, he brings the phone to his ear.

“Do it,” is his only command.

As he disconnects the call, there’s another strike of lightning.

One. Two. Three.

The breeze kicks up.

Get up. Don’t die on your knees, Hunter.

Johan’s face before I put a bullet in his brain flashes before me.

I pull myself to a sitting position. As I do, Father saunters over to me.

“Need a hand?” he asks, reaching out to me.

I don’t dare take it.

Another sigh. “Don’t be so damn stubborn, Hunter.”

With one hand holding his cigarette, he pulls me to my feet. The world spins for a few seconds before stabilizing. He directs my movements, leading me to the long-cushioned sofa that lines a significant portion of the veranda. It’s often moved around the space depending on the needs of the crowd. Now, it arcs in front of the stage where the artists who come to the island perform.

He drops me onto a pillow without care.

Taking in another draw, he says, “You know, son.” He speaks while holding in the cigarette smoke. A beat later, he exhales. “You’ve brought this all on yourself, you know.” He flicks the end of the cig.

“You are so damn much like me.” He smirks.

What a terrible thought.

The door to the patio slides open, and Father prevents my view of the people who enter.

“Let’s see if this jogs your memory.”

Father steps aside, and icy panic rushes down my face.

Mom.

Amelia Brigham never comes to Isla Cara. But now she’s here—her mouth covered with tape and her arms and legs bound as three of Father’s guards drag her along the tile before they drop her onto the stage.

Everything goes silent—the wind stops, the ocean and the air seem to hold their breaths.

“Father, I-I—” I stammer.

“I-I,” he mocks. Walking to Mom, he presses the burning cigarette over her right eye socket.

Her screams cause all sound to resume—the crashing waves, the violent breeze whipping through the trees as the storm presses on, the thump-thump-thump of my heartbeat between my ears.

Even though the thick tape covers her mouth and muffles the sound, it’s as loud as though she were yelling into a microphone.

“S-stop!” I lean forward, engaging all my muscles to stand and rush to Mom. Once I’m upright, Father removes the butt from her face…only to whirl around and backhand me so hard I fall back into the sofa cushions.

Spinning. Spinning. Everything tilts.

He tsks .

“Hunter,” he says with a tone bordering on caring.

“Hunter, it’s simple. We can bypass all this drama. All you have to do is tell me.” Father holds his hands out to his side, a single rivulet of smoke wafting from the almost spent cigarette.

I don’t grab my cheek. Instead, I look at him over my shoulder for a hard moment. Likely seeing the resolve I channel into my expression, he flicks the ash one more time, takes a long draw, and exhales as he crushes the cigarette beneath his foot.

“Okay,” Father says, much in the same way one might say, “As you wish.”

I painfully flip around so that I face him. One of the guards observing the scene moves from his spot across the veranda and enters the server area. He crouches to search for something and returns a few moments later to stand next to Father with a gallon glass jug in one hand and a pair of rubber gloves in the other.

Father moves to Mom, tearing the tape off her mouth.

Once freed to speak, Mom grits her teeth and says, “Let him go, Benjamin.” Each word is a pointed stab aimed at tearing at my father.

He smiles at the assault.

“And why would I do that, Amelia?”

Father bends over so their faces are level. Mom chooses to say nothing.

She stares hard at him, but in contrast to the steel in her spine, her chin trembles.

Still, she says nothing.

I clamp my lips shut. Neither will I.

“Amelia…” Father whispers. “So beautiful. So, so beautiful.”

Mom looks at him hard, giving him a hostile gaze. “And you, Benjamin, are death in the flesh. Evil. Pure evil. I pray for the day you rot in Hell.”

Father continues to look at her with a gentle, soft gaze. Then he says, “And to think I actually loved you.”

He runs his finger down her cheek, then leans down to kiss her lips.

Mom fights the caress. When he removes his mouth from hers, she pauses for a moment before spitting in his face.

With her chest heaving, she says, “I’d rather die than spend another moment with you.”

A muscle ticks in Father’s cheek.

She continues, “But Hunter had nothing to do with this. He knows nothing. Don’t hurt him anymore. Let him go. ” Her voice shakes on the last sentence, and for the first time since they dragged her from the house, she looks at me.

Even though she tries to suppress it, my mom’s face radiates what it’s always shown whenever she looks at me.

Strength.

Care.

Love.

“Hmm,” Father says.

Mom’s gaze flicks toward him before she looks back at me. In the shift, I read her silent message.

It’s okay.

Her eyes move to the bottle in the guard’s hands.

No matter what they do to me, it’s okay. She says this all in that silent way we’ve always been able to speak.

I’m helpless against the shaking that starts in my hands, traveling up my forearms.

“Hunter’s freedom depends on him. He knows how to stop all this,” Father says to my mom as if correcting an errant child.

He turns to me. “One last chance, Hunter. Tell me the plan.”

No. Because I’d rather die than betray my mom. I can be strong. I can be strong enough to do this.

I grit my teeth and do something I’ve never done when it comes to my father.

I say, “No.”

The word falls heavy between us. The slight movement of my mom’s head causes me to look at her again. There’s a soft smile on her face, and for the first time, I don’t really know what it means.

The guard hands the gloves to my father.

“Suit yourself, Hunter,” Father says as he pulls on one glove and then the other.

The guard hands the bottle to Father, and he unstoppers it.

“Think about it while she dies.”

Father tips the alcohol over Mom’s bare shoulder. She sputters, but it only takes a second before her skin begins to turn red and bubble.

She screams, and the sound stabs my brain.

I watch in horror as her skin bursts, leaks—eaten away by whatever Father just poured on her.

Not alcohol. Acid.

She tries to flail away, run away, but with her bound hands and feet, all she can do is endure the pain.

Her screams turn to sobs, and I rush over to her, falling over myself as I try to save her. The sharp, foreign scent of her skin crumbling away assaults me.

Mom screeches, “Don’t!” and I stop dead in my tracks.

What do I do? What do I do?

I want to vomit. I want to sob.

What do I do?

“Hunter. Tell me what I want to know!” Father bellows.

I look back at my mom, and even though her face is gray with agony, her mouth makes two shapes.

O. K.

I shake my head.

“No!” I yell.

Father growls, then before I can react, he tips the jug over Mom’s head. She flinches at the last second, but it still lands on the right side of her face.

More screams.

What do I do?

Her skin melts, melts, melts like wax. I take another big step toward her.

“No, Hunter! No! No!” She shakes her head, rubbing the side of her face on her shoulder on instinct. She writhes and, at the same time, deflects my advances.

“ What do I do? ” My voice cracks, and I grab my hair, completely helpless to the tears that spring out of my eyes, the sobbing that wracks my body.

I’m breaking. I’m breaking.

“Tell! Me!” Father roars.

He comes closer, but my gaze turns to Mom when she begins to shake in violent tremors.

When Father raises the jug, ready to pour the acid on my body, I fall to the ground, covering my head.

Father lets out a dark chuckle, pulling on my arm to expose more of my skin. “You’re a pussy, Hunter. A weak mama’s boy.”

Two guards grab me, and my scream rents the air. They spread my arms wide, exposing my whole body right as Mom shouts in a foreign-sounding tone. “ It’s ,” she draws in a sucking breath, “ ok-ay .”

I turn my head to look at her. As soon as our eyes meet, she blinks hard. The remaining part of her mouth twitches. A flicker.

Then she loses consciousness.

“I’ll give you one last chance, Hunter.” Father, in his angry aggression, holds the jug high, ready to pour the contents on me. “I don’t want to kill you, son. But I will. I so fucking will.”

It’s okay, Mom said.

“It’s okay,” whispers in my mind.

“I’m sorry,” is what I want to say, but she won’t hear it.

So with one final look at my father’s enraged face, I open my mouth and choke out the words.

“I’ll tell you everything.”