Chapter 3

What demon possessed me when packing for Sunset Harbor, I don’t know, but I’m severely regretting my wardrobe choices as I sort through decades of accumulated belongings in the steaming attic of Grams’s house.

But I actually do know what demon it was: determination to show up making it clear that I mean business. Which obviously required business attire.

I wipe away a trickle of sweat with the back of my hand and look around at the four boxes I’ve filled so far. I’ve only cleared out one small corner of the attic, and I have to take in a big breath to reassure myself I’ll be able to get all this stuff packed up and this house ready for sale before I fly home in six days.

It might be less difficult if I wasn’t responding to sporadic texts from the office. I haven’t taken much vacation over the few years I’ve been with Insight Partners, and certainly not a full week, so they’re struggling a bit without their PR manager. I kind of like knowing they miss me. I’ve worked my tail off to climb this high up the ladder, and it feels good to know I’m needed.

I set a dusty swimming trophy of Dad’s into the box, notating it on the spreadsheet I’m keeping of all the items. Beneath the trophy is a stack of pictures, held together with a rubber band. The one on top is from Mom and Dad’s wedding on the main beach here in Sunset Harbor. It’s old and faded, and Mom’s poofy 90s wedding dress sleeves make me smile. They both offered to come do this job, but I insisted. They’re busy running Dad’s pool back home—it’s busy season right now—and the feud with the Palmers affected them a lot more and for a lot longer than it affected me. It’s better this way.

I flick through the pictures, stopping on one of my sister Mia and me when we were little. We’re sitting in the boat on the dock we (unwillingly) shared with the Palmers, wearing bandanas around our heads, our mouths covered with the remnants of chocolate ice cream. Our street is on the bayside of the island, and there’s a canal at the back. I have a lot of fond memories of jumping off the dock and playing pirates in our boat with Mia.

One time—before we fully understood the dynamic between Sawyers and Palmers—Mia stayed in our boat, while I commandeered the Palmers’ empty one for an imaginary race against Mia to the buried treasure. Too bad we hadn’t counted on old Mr. Rick Palmer—Beau’s grandpa—waving his cane and yelling for me to get out.

At one point, someone even drew a chalk line down the dock to delineate the supposed property line. And every time it rained—which was frequently—it magically got redrawn, until finally it was spray painted.

I set the pictures in the box and add them to the spreadsheet, shifting from my knees to a cross-legged position. These slacks will never be the same after all the dust and splintered wood they’re ingesting.

I can hardly believe how much old stuff is here. Oodles of golf balls, severely rusted clubs, a spelling bee trophy of mine, Mia’s certificate from a singing competition, a tangled mess of lane ropes from the community pool—may it rest in peace—and various boxes of clothes.

One of them is Mom’s stuff from before she got pregnant with me. It’s an amazing collection of 90s fashion: spaghetti strap everything, plaid miniskirts, a velour tracksuit, multiple pairs of jean shorts, graphic tees, and even a bucket hat. It’s basically Clueless in a box.

It’s the real treasure, and I take the contents straight to the washing machine. After a solid run through the laundry, I’ll be availing myself of it to ditch this business attire whenever it’s not required.

I sort through the next box—relics from Grams’s and Gramps’s youth—trying to strike the balance between appreciation and efficiency. It takes a lot longer than I’d hoped.

When the load of Mom’s old clothing is done in the dryer, I strip off my slacks and trade them for a pair of high-waisted shorts that make me feel like I can breathe again.

Beneath the box of Grams’s relics is a rusted old sign that says Jim Sawyer for City Council .

That was a couple of years before we left. I was in fifth grade when Dad ran for the open council seat. So did Mark Palmer, Beau’s dad. That campaign season made US presidential elections look like a friendly game of bingo. Thanks to the misinformation that was spread about Dad, the disappearing campaign signs, and the biased media coverage, Dad lost.

I check the time on my phone and hurry to my feet, barely avoiding hitting my head on the low ceiling. I promised Grams I’d come have lunch with her at noon to give her an update on the attic progress. With my trusty spreadsheet, she can tell me which items to donate and which ones should go in storage.

My body begs me to head to the retirement center in these beautifully breezy shorts, but my pride won’t allow it. I shower, pull my wet hair back into a bun, and put on a short-sleeve button-up and a different pair of slacks. I leave my heels off on the drive over for obvious reasons.

Grams is already seated at a table with Deedee and a few others when I arrive with my bag of takeout from the Beach Break Bar it was taking the high road.

I pull into the driveway and head inside, shedding my business attire before I get back to work. With a better sense for what Grams wants to keep and chuck, things go a bit more quickly, but this room is still chock-full of old and unorganized stuff. I’ll have to go through the main parts of the house too, and that’s where the things she’s more likely to want to keep are.

Around five thirty, when I’ve got a quarter of the room boxed up, I get a video call. I quickly type a couple of items into the spreadsheet, then tap to answer.

“Hell in a handbasket,” I say in a receptionist voice. “This is Gemma. How can I direct your call?” I prop my phone against a box so my sister Mia can see me.

“Ugh. That bad? I was hoping things had improved and it’d be a pleasant surprise.”

“If being pulled over two hours after arriving is a pleasant surprise…”

Mia’s jaw drops. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“If only.” I pull out an old set of teacups and inspect them. They’re chipped and faded. Definitely trash pile material. “Would you care to guess who pulled me over?”

There’s a short pause, and Mia’s nose scrunches like she’s reaching back into the deep recesses of her brain. “What was that old guy’s name? Officer Francis?”

“He’s retired, Mia. Possibly dead.”

“Right. I forget how long it’s been.”

“I did too until I got pulled over by—get this—Officer Beau Palmer.”

Mia doesn’t respond. In fact, she’s not even looking at me.

“Mia?”

Her gaze flicks back to me. “Sorry. Just pulling up flights. I’m coming ASAP. This is a code red situation.”

I laugh. Mia and her fiancé, Austin, are up to their ears in legal issues from his recent break with his music label. Luckily, the massive fanbase desperate for their music can help dry their tears at night. “You can’t come out here right now, Mia. Besides, I don’t need you to. I mean, yes, it’d be nice to have backup sometimes, but I can handle it.”

“What did he pull you over for? Some trumped-up offense, I’m guessing.”

“Driving erratically.”

She scoffs, only to stop suddenly. “Were you?”

“No way. I’d like to see him drive that crazy thing. It’s like being on Mario Kart. Grams had the mechanic here add some enhancements.”

“This is a new cart, right?”

“Nope.”

She stares at me, incredulous. “The same one from when we lived there?”

“Correct.”

“Oh my gosh,” she whispers. “She’s crazy.”

“You have no idea. Her latest plan is a hunger strike until they allow booze at the senior center. ”

Mia busts up laughing. “I love her so much!”

“It’s not funny,” I say. But it is, a little.

“Okay.” She clears her throat and gets serious, sitting taller.

“Anyway,” I continue, “that’s what I’m dealing with. On top of trying to sort through all this…nonsense.” I pick up the phone and sweep it around the attic to show her.

“Yikes. So, did you get a citation?”

“No.” I almost wish I had just because it’d be so in line with my experience with the Palmers. Not that I need proof they’re the worst. I have plenty of that. But shiny, new proof is always nice. “Beau was supposedly just worried for my safety.”

She snorts. “Right…so, Beau Palmer’s a cop, huh? Wouldn’t have figured that one. He and that Miller kid used to get up to all kinds of mischief. What does he look like now? Gangly? Warts all over his face with hair growing out?” She shuts her eyes. “I’m envisioning the old beggar woman from the cartoon Snow White .”

“Ugh. I wish. He’s annoyingly beautiful.” I chuck a broken picture frame into the trash box. “He’s probably in one of those gross calendars that feature hot cops in booty shorts.”

Mia cringes. “Is he really that attractive?”

“Only if you like strong, lean men with perfect hair and boyish smiles that make their pretty eyes twinkle.”

She sighs. “There’s no justice in this world.”

“Definitely not on this island. The man clearly sees his job as a joke. He’s part-time, Mia. I didn’t even know part-time cops were a thing.”

“They’re probably not—unless you’re in cahoots with the mayor.”

“Right? And get this.” I stand up and pull an empty box over to start filling. “He has this dog. Calls it a K- 5 .”

Mia’s face screws up like it’s the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.

“He says it’s more evolved than a K-9. Which was just before it started choking on grass.” I grab the phone and walk over to the window to look out over the canal. It’s a gorgeous view, with deep green water winding between docks and the Florida mainland in the distance. “This whole place is such a thirst trap,” I mutter.

“Lemme see.”

I flip the camera and wait for the exposure to adjust.

She sighs. “It’s so perfect visually that it had to have major defects, right? It’s the balance the universe requires.”

“Are you saying everyone will be delightful if I move to the projects?”

“It’s a working theory, Gem. Don’t stretch it.”

My gaze catches on a wakeless boat meandering through the canal. I squinch my eyes to see who’s driving. “Oh my gosh. It’s him. It’s Beau.”

“Oh, lemme see! Lemme see!”

I make an annoyed sound, then pinch to zoom.

Mia gets closer to her screen, her nose warping to ghastly proportions as she squints. “Zoom in more. I can’t see him yet.”

“It’ll just get more pixelated.” I try anyway. I need her to appreciate how unfair everything still is on this island: Palmer parents retired and probably sipping martinis on a Mediterranean beach. Tristan, the handsome figurehead of the family’s Center for World Domination. Baywatch Beau hoarding all the island power with not even half of the work of a normal cop. I’m not even convinced Sunset Harbor needs police. We could probably get by with a rent-a-cop.

Whoa.

Not we. They .

Anyway, I’d place a hefty bet Beau doesn’t even need the job. Thanks to their empire of retirement centers across Florida, he has a fortune coming to him whenever his parents kick the bucket, so the cop gig is probably for the power and glory.

“Ugh, it’s so blurry,” Mia complains .

“Well, jeez, Mia. Forgive me for forgetting to attach my telezoom safari lens to my phone.”

“He’s basically a blob, but he’s got hot blob energy for sure.”

I tap the ultra-zoomed in screen in an attempt to focus the image more now that Beau’s pulling up to the dock and not moving as fast. It helps, but only a little, so I get the phone as close to the window as I can.

That’s when he looks up and straight at me.