“Shit,” he said.
Meg looked up at him. “What?”
“There were some flashlights by the patio door,” he said. “I forgot to grab them.” He looked down toward the boathouse, then back up to the house past the dangerous bend in the path as if weighing his options. “Shit,” he said again. “We’ll need them. Stay here?”
Stay on a hillside by herself in the middle of nowhere? After almost plummeting to her death? Um, no. She started to protest, but T.J. didn’t give her the opportunity. Faster than Meg could react, he reached down and gave her a quick kiss on the lips, then whirled around and headed back up the hill.
Meg felt dizzy. Had he just kissed her? Had T. J. Fletcher just kissed her?
Several thoughts filled Meg’s head simultaneously.
Number one—she was quite possibly going to pass out from joy.
Number two—had he meant to kiss her? Had it been a mistake? No, that was silly. How could it possibly have been a mistake unless he was trying to lick something off her face?
Number three—was there any way Minnie might have seen them?
The last was the most disturbing. Meg blinked through the onslaught of rain and craned her head to try and get a view of the house. She could just make out the line of windows along the enclosed patio, and even then it was just a glimpse of glittering white through the trees. No, she was safe. Unless Minnie had followed them to the boathouse. Meg stepped up to the higher walkway and tried to follow the path back to the house, but the angle of the hillside and the thickening trees made it impossible to see more than a hundred feet behind her.
Good. If she couldn’t see the house, Minnie couldn’t see her.
Meg leaned back against a tree for support. The rain was falling in sheets, so fast and so heavy that she couldn’t differentiate the individual drops anymore. Every few seconds the wind would shift, giving Meg a face full of rain. The storm was fierce, unrelenting, and Meg could barely keep her eyes open in the face of its violence.
She squinted down at the rocks below. The waves crashed against the rocky island so viciously she could feel their impact, though oddly, she couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t hear any individual sounds, actually. The wind and the rain created a kind of white noise backdrop that drowned everything else out. Meg opened her mouth and yelled into the storm, then laughed to herself. She could barely hear her own voice.
Meg quickly realized it wasn’t funny. No one could hear her scream. That was the truth. As she stood, lashed by rain and straining against the wind to even stand upright, the whole island took on a more sinister feel.
Meg shivered. How long had T.J. been gone? Surely long enough to run back up to the house and get back to her. Still, she didn’t want him to rush. One misstep on those slippery wooden walkways and he’d go crashing headfirst onto the rocks below. Why would anyone build such a dangerous path? It was almost as if—
A hand grabbed Meg’s shoulder. She screamed, her heart leaping to her throat, and spun around to find T.J.
“You okay?” he yelled through the rain. He had two orange-handled flashlights sticking out of each of his coat pockets. He wasn’t smiling.
Meg nodded.
“Your teeth are chattering,” he said.
“They are?” Meg took mental stock of herself. She was drenched from head to foot and yes, her teeth were indeed chattering. She was so lost in T.J.’s kiss and the weird ambiance of the island that she hadn’t even noticed.
“Come on,” T.J. said.
Meg blindly stumbled behind him. Just above the rocky shore, the walkway stopped at a set of steep wooden stairs. The railing was wobbly, but T.J. took the steps one at a time, slow and careful. Then together they pushed open the rickety door of the Lawrences’ boathouse.
SIXTEEN
DRIPPING WET AND CHILLED TO THE BONE, T.J. and Meg trudged inside. There were cracks in the roof allowing beams of dull, muted light to filter in, illuminating a million particles of dust kicked up as they shuffled across the wooden floor. Rain dripped steadily from two dozen spots in the roof, but at least the wooden walls blocked the wind. Meg sneezed as T.J. latched the solid, cross-beamed door behind him.
T.J. whipped the cap off his head. “You okay?” he asked, wringing the water out of it.
Meg fought the urge to shiver. Her flannel pajama bottoms were soaked and clung to her thighs in a way that could not possibly be flattering. Beneath the waterproof layer of her teal-green raincoat, her skin was goose-pimpled with the cold, and she silently cursed her airheadedness in forgetting to put on a bra.
“Yeah.” Meg pulled the hood off her head and shook out her hair. “Totally fine.”
“Good.” He shoved his beanie into his coat pocket and handed Meg a flashlight. She switched it on and scanned the interior of the boathouse.
They stood on a wooden platform that stretched the length of the floating building. A large blue tarp covered a pile on the far wall. Meg traced its outline with the beam of her flashlight and saw where a corner of the tarp had been folded, exposing a stack of gasoline cans beneath.
“At least there’s plenty of gas,” she said.
T.J.’s beam joined hers on the pile. “So we can start a bonfire?”
“No.” Meg snorted. “If we have to drive a boat out of here, at least we’ll have fuel.”
T.J. stepped in front of her and smiled. “Oh, yeah? And are you going to pilot the boat?”
His dimples—the left one slightly deeper than the right—taunted her. So many times she’d dreamed about running her fingers over them, feeling the soft indentations with her fingertips, then tracing the strong, square line of his chin. She’d even journaled about it, much to her own personal embarrassment. Nothing like reading over your own diary entry and realizing how pathetic it sounded.
T.J. took a step toward her and Meg caught her breath. Was he going to kiss her again? Oh my God. She hadn’t French kissed a guy since she’d cut her tongue on Tim Eberstein’s new braces when he kissed her after band practice in junior high. She’d bled like crazy, drooling a mixture of blood and saliva down the front of her white T-shirt. Tim had shrieked like a girl and run away, and Meg had to go to the nurse’s office and spin a ridiculous story about a wicked paper cut caused by licking envelopes for the spring concert invitations.
It was a less than romantic experience.
Meg shook herself out of the memory. T.J. doesn’t have braces, what are you freaking about …?
It was then Meg realized that although T.J. was standing mere inches from her, his eyes were fixed on something over her right shoulder. She turned and saw that he was staring at a boat.
Well, not a boat. It was huge, forty feet long at least, with a long, pointed bow and a raised pilothouse towering above them. The boat was painted white—like the house—with its name painted in bright red letters up near the bow: Nemesis.
“It’s beautiful.” T.J. sighed.
Really? A boat? An inanimate object was more enticing than she was? This was so exactly her life.
“Man,” T.J. said, sidestepping Meg. “My uncle had one of these when I was a kid. I haven’t seen one in years.”
“Creepy name for a boat.”
“Not just a boat,” he said. “A Grand Alaskan Trawler. They’re perfect for small island travel, personal fishing. Real workhorse.” He unlatched the side boarding gate and climbed on board.
“Oh.” She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
“This is probably like early seventies.” He knocked on the side of the boat with his knuckles. “Wooden hull. Portuguese bridge. A total collector’s item. I can’t believe it’s just sitting out here in the middle of nowhere.”
Meg sighed. “Awesome?” She knew next to nothing about boats. Her Upper East Side, New York–transplanted parents hadn’t exactly taken to life on the Seattle coast, and the only boats Meg had ever been on were ferries.
“Totally.” T.J. turned to her and smiled again, his dimples wreaking havoc wi
th her nerves. Then he held his hand out to her. “Come on. I’ll show you the pilothouse.”
Meg stepped aboard and followed T.J. up a short, narrow flight of stairs to the raised pilothouse. The boat showed signs that it had been well taken care of once upon a time, but in the last few years had been totally neglected. The mahogany-lined wheelhouse appeared to be decked out with more modern technologies than would have been available when it was constructed. Modern navigation screens felt anachronistic with the old-fashioned spoked pilot’s wheel and wooden railings that lined the stairs leading belowdecks. And while there were no obvious signs of decay or damage, a thick layer of dust had settled on every surface.
“Damn,” T.J. said, tracing a line in the dust-caked captain’s chair and wiping the remnants on his jeans. “Shame this baby’s just sitting up here. Somebody put a lot of work into her, but beneath the upgrades, this girl is a classic. They don’t make them like this anymore.”
Wow. So T.J. was a boat geek. Who knew? Somehow this knowledge made him slightly less intimidating. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about boats,” Meg said with a half smile.
“Heh,” T.J. said, shuffling his feet. “I don’t share it much.”
“I can see why. It’s pretty nerdy.”
T.J. pried his eyes away from the ship’s gadgets and gizmos and stared at her. The smile dropped from his face and his brows crinkled up like he was trying to figure out if she was making fun of him or not.
“I was just kidding,” Meg said, feeling her face flush red. Why was she such a spaz? “I mean, I’m totally way nerdier than you. I’m a writer, for chrissakes. We’re like the ultimate nerds. And you don’t even want to see my baseball card collection....”
Meg’s voice trailed off. Ah, yes. Cue her verbal diarrhea. So not sexy, Meg.
“I don’t think you’re a nerd,” T.J. said. His voice was soft yet firm, as if he were making a very serious clarification. “Not even a little.”
“Oh.” So he didn’t think she was a nerd. Was that good? Was that bad? Holy crap, why was she so unsure of herself?
T.J. took a step toward her. This time his eyes were fixed fully on her face. “Meg …,” he started, then paused.
“What?” Her voice was breathless, probably caused by the fact that her heart was racing so fast she thought she might pass out.
“Are you okay?”
Why did he keep asking her that? “Yeah.”
T.J. placed a hand against her arm. “You’re trembling.”
Meg hadn’t even noticed but as soon as T.J. mentioned it, her teeth began to chatter again. She was either going hypothermic or the adrenaline rush of being alone with T.J. was spiraling out of control. Probably both.
“Just cold,” she said through chattering teeth.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He let his hand linger on her arm and she could feel his grip tighten slightly through the fabric of her coat. “I didn’t mean to drag you out here in the cold. I just … I wanted to talk to you.”
Meg’s stomach had by this time permanently relocated to her throat. She’d dreamed a hundred times about T.J. proclaiming his undying love for her, but even now, as they were alone together in the boathouse, she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it was true. He had his pick of girls to choose from. Everyone wanted to go out with T.J. Fletcher. Why on earth would he choose her?
“I know we didn’t talk much after … well, after Homecoming,” he started. She felt his fingers graze the back of her hand. “I mean, I was pretty pissed off and I guess I avoided you after that.”
Homecoming night. She’d been so excited when he asked her to the dance, though it all came crumbling down when Minnie confronted her.
“But I’ve missed you,” T.J. started again. He brought his face close to hers. “Since Gunner and Minnie broke up, I never see you.”
At the mention of Minnie’s name, Meg’s entire body stiffened. Minnie. Oh crap, what would she say if she saw the two of them on the boat together? Minnie would never forgive her if she knew about this conversation. It would crush her. It would ruin their friendship.
T.J. leaned into Meg’s body. “And I guess what I’m trying to say, is that I—”
“We need to look for the radio,” she blurted out. She couldn’t hear anymore. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t date someone her best friend was in love with. That was the ultimate betrayal.
T.J. jerked his head back like Meg had just slapped him. “Huh?”
“The radio.” She pulled away from him and started rifling through the gadgets on the control panel of the wheelhouse. “And then get back to the house.”
“Oh.” T.J. stood still for a moment, then walked over to the captain’s chair. “Right.”
Meg turned her back to him. She wanted to cry. Why couldn’t she at least wait to hear what he had to say? Why did she have to go and make a mess out of everything?
“That’s weird,” T.J. said.
Meg wiped a stray tear off her cheek. “What?”
“The radio’s gone.”
“What?” The tension between them was gone in an instant. Meg peered up to where T.J. pointed above the window.
“Gone. It’s been removed.”
SEVENTEEN
“SOMEONE TOOK THE RADIO OUT OF THE BOAT?” Meg stared at a gaping hole in the boat’s console. “Why would anyone do that?”
T.J. shook his head. “No idea. But judging by the prints in the dust here”—he pointed at smudge marks on either side of the radio’s former location—“I’d guess it was removed fairly recently.”
“Is that normal?” Meg asked. She was grasping at straws, attempting to quell the uneasiness in her gut that threatened a full-scale panic. “Like for maintenance or something?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
They stood in silence. The idea that yet another hope for communication with the mainland had been purposefully removed was still sinking in, and while the reality of their situation weighed on her, Meg’s mind raced with possible solutions.
“What about the boat? Can we drive it to Roche Harbor?”
“No keys.”
“Oh.” Duh. Somehow she’d expected a more dynamic answer. “Can you hotwire it?”
T.J. tilted his head to look at her. “Do I look like I know how to hotwire a boat?”
“You don’t look like you’d know how to drive one, but apparently you do.”
“Good point.”
Now it was Meg’s turn to tilt her head. “So do you?”
“Do I what?”
What was this, twenty questions? Meg threw up her hands. “Do you know how to hotwire the boat?!?”
T.J. pursed his lips. His dimples sagged ever so slightly. “Yeah, no.”
Meg’s eyes roamed the wheelhouse. “Maybe they’re here somewhere? The keys?” That was logical, sort of. Why not keep the keys in the boat somewhere? It wasn’t exactly as if a boat-jacker was going to steal the thing way out there in the middle of nowhere.
“Honestly, Meg, I doubt it.”
“We should still check.”
T.J. sighed. “Fine.” He climbed down a short staircase that led belowdecks. “I’ll check the cabins, you look up here, okay?” He didn’t sound particularly optimistic.
“Okay.” Meg wasn’t about to let T.J.’s pessimism daunt her. She was going to find those keys, dammit.
The wheelhouse seemed to be the most logical place to keep a set of boat keys. She combed the control panel with her flashlight, hoping the gleam of the metallic keys would catch her eye amid the gears and gizmos. No dice. Then she rummaged through a few drawers and cabinets on either side of the steering wheel. She found charts, a tool box, a can of WD-40, a dusty compass, a Seattle Mariners baseball cap with a heavily creased brim, a battery-operated fan, dusty coffee mugs, and an array of adapters, plugs, and extension cords that didn’t appear to go with any specific electronics whatsoever.
Ugh.
There was a closet door on the back w
all next to the stairs. Last chance. Meg crossed her fingers, held her breath, and opened the closet.
Not only were there no keys, but the space was oddly empty. No mops, no brooms, no coats, no anything. Weird. The rest of the wheelhouse compartments were stuffed with junk, but this one had been completely cleaned out.
She scanned its length from top to bottom, then paused as her flashlight beam caught something on the ground. It was a stain, a ring-shaped stain, of red paint.
“T.J.!” Meg called out. “Come here!”
The boat shifted as she heard T.J.’s footsteps pounding up the stairs. “What?” he asked as his head popped over the rail. “Did you find them?”
Meg shook her head. “Look.”
T.J.’s light joined hers on the red stain on the floor of the closet. He crouched down and dabbed at it with his finger. A smudge of red paint appeared on the tip of his middle finger.
Meg gasped. “It’s still wet?”
T.J. didn’t answer. He held his finger to his nose and sniffed a few times, then abruptly stood up. “I think …,” he started. “I’m pretty sure it’s the same paint that’s on the wall up at the house.”
Meg’s heart was racing. Missing radio, missing paint … “Someone took them both,” she said. “Recently.”
It wasn’t a question and T.J. didn’t respond. The unspoken “why” lingered in the air between them, but Meg was afraid to ask. Afraid of the answer.
“What do we do now?” she asked instead.
T.J. glanced from the closet to the missing radio bay, then to Meg. “We go back.”
It wasn’t raining nearly as hard as it had been thirty minutes ago, and the wind was no longer attempting to wipe the island clean of all its inhabitants, flora and fauna alike. But Meg still felt as if she were battling the elements as she slowly climbed back up the wooden walkways toward White Rock House.
T.J. led the way as before, but he didn’t hold her hand this time. Instead he was easily ten feet in front of her by the time they were halfway up the hill. He hadn’t turned around once to make sure she was okay.
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