DANTE ALIGHIERI,
Pierce!” Bryce, Seth’s not-very-bright football-playing friend, was really happy to see me. “Pierce Oliviera!”
He pronounced my last name wrong, but since most people did unless I corrected them, I let it go. With Bryce around, no one could kill me. Bryce had a neck thicker than an ordinary person’s thigh and an IQ about as high as the temperature, but he was a fan of my dad’s, and I was pretty sure he’d object if anyone tried to murder me in front of him.
“Hey, you guys,” Bryce said excitedly, as he dragged me towards the rear of the room. “Look who I found! Zack Oliviera’s daughter. You know, Zack Oliviera, that guy who runs the big oil company?”
“The one that sells all the stuff to the military?” a guy I didn’t know asked.
Seth and his friends had pulled some of the deck furniture inside. Now they were sitting on it so they could watch Cassandra in all her fierce glory, as if the sun loungers and chaises were seats in a theater, and the storm was something being shown on a screen in front of them, in IMAX.
“That’s the one,” Seth said to his friend, with a lazy grin.
Bryce hadn’t been weird or creepy about demanding that I come to the back of the room to say hi to Seth. He’d simply seized my hand and refused to release it, the way an excited puppy would grab the pant leg of a new visitor.
“Come on,” he’d said, when I’d insisted I was leaving. “You can’t come all this way and not even say hi to Seth. He’s gonna be so disappointed. Besides, you hafta come look at the storm. It’s so cool!”
It was at that moment I saw Alex appear at the top of the stairs leading down to the basement. Our gazes met, and he froze, recognizing Bryce.
I had no idea whether or not Bryce was one of the people who’d been present when Alex had been murdered, but I saw my cousin shrink back into the shadows of the stairwell, attempting to conceal the file folder he was holding in his hands. He’d found something in Seth’s dad’s business office … something he didn’t want anyone to see him leaving with.
That’s why I said, in a voice I hoped was loud enough for Alex to hear, “Sure, Bryce. I’ll go say hello to Seth.”
“Great,” Bryce said happily, and he dragged me across the room to where Seth and his friends were sitting.
“How are you doing, Pierce?” Seth asked, rising from the chaise lounge on which he’d been sitting. “Glad you could make it. What’s that thing you’ve got on? A whip? Kinky.”
He leaned down to give me a kiss hello … a kiss hello that didn’t feel any different from any other kiss hello I’d ever received, except that Seth was standing so close that I could smell his scent: freshly applied deodorant and expensive body spray and whatever detergent his mom — or, more likely, housekeeper — used to launder his clothes. It was so different from the way John smelled — of the wood smoke from the fireplace in his room and something else, something distinctly John — that for a second I felt such a wave of longing for John wash over me, I could hardly speak.
Then Seth leaned away, and I couldn’t smell him anymore, and the wave of longing for John was gone. It was strange.
When I glanced behind me, I could see that Alex was gone, as well. I wasn’t sure if he’d made it out of the stairwell and out the front door, or if he’d slunk back down into the basement. Whichever it was, he appeared to have escaped.
“Sorry,” I said to Seth. “I didn’t see you over here.” It was a small lie, but one I hoped he would buy. “But I did talk to Farah. She doesn’t seem to be feeling too well.”
Seth looked puzzled. “What?”
“She’s passed out,” I explained. “My friend had to carry her into one of the other rooms. We’re trying to call an ambulance, but you might want to —”
One of Seth’s friends, and another fellow football player, Cody, burst out laughing.
“An ambulance?” Cody echoed in a scornful tone. “An ambulance’ll never be able to get out here in this weather. Neither will the cops. Why do you think we’re holding the coffin party out here, anyway? Not just so none of those goddamned juniors can find us and jack it. Am I right?”
He turned towards Bryce, and the two of them bumped chests, yelling,
Wreckers was not only the name of the Isla Huesos High School mascot, but how Seth referred to his personal crew. His ancestors had been employed as wreckers back when the
“Look, don’t worry about Farah,” Seth said to me, while smiling amusedly at his friends’ antics. “She’s a lightweight who’s never been able to hold her liquor. She does this every time we party. She’ll wake up and barf and be out here dancing again in no time. Hey, c’mere, I want to show you something.”
That’s when he took my hand and tried pulling me down onto the chaise beside him.
“Seth,” I said, resisting. “I can’t. We were just leaving —”
“Who’s we?” he asked with a grin. “You and that boyfriend of yours?” He glanced around the room. “I don’t see him anywhere. He’s not
“No,” I said, struggling to think of some excuse to get away. “But someone really should keep an eye on Farah.”
“Yeah, if you want a lapful of spew. Believe me, I’ve been there, and it’s not pretty.” With alarming force, he managed to wrestle me onto the lounger. For someone who’d joked about my boyfriend holding me prisoner, he seemed pretty intent on keeping me that way. “Take a look at that. What do you think?”
I had to admit that in front of us stretched a truly amazing scene. It wasn’t only the angrily heaving waves of the usually serene Florida “flats” — water normally so still and calm that paddleboarders could navigate it while standing upright with a six-pack and a dog sitting at their feet.
It was the spectacular breadth of sky visible on three sides from inside the house, clouds towering so high they resembled New York City skyscrapers and were occasionally lit as brightly when lightning crackled through them.
Then there was the spec home’s backyard stretched out beneath us, a raised deck built of sandstone tiles that would have been the color of the beach had Mr. Rector not bulldozed all the beaches in order to build over them. Enclosed by three-foot glass walls so the ocean view wouldn’t be impeded, the spec house’s deck came complete with an outdoor kitchen that included a barbecue, mini-fridge, sink, and built-in picnic table.
The crown jewel of the deck, however, was a kidney-shaped aquamarine swimming pool, with an attached hot tub that featured a waterfall that overflowed into the pool. Unlike the lagoon we’d seen while driving in, the waterfall was still working. Though, according to my mother’s maintenance company, the number one rule when preparing your pool for a hurricane was to switch off its power source, the generator was still operating it, along with the pool’s pump.
There appeared to be something at the bottom of Mr. Rector’s pool. It could have been a double dolphin tile design, to match the one in stained glass on the front door, but it was raining too hard to tell.
“Check it out,” Seth said to me with a grin, pointing at the pool. The generator had kept the pool lights bright, so it was easy to see what happened next …
… which was that a powerful wave crashed against the glass wall around the backyard, surged over it and then across the sandstone, then dumped itself into the pool, filling it with dark, brackish salt water.
I realized then what was at the bottom of the pool: seaweed. Not just seaweed but debris of all kinds, including what looked like pieces of driftwood, coolers from fishing boats that had come loose from their moors, possibly even fish. The entire backyard was flooded. I saw a lobster buoy that had detached from its trap bobbing next to the barbecue. A deck chair floated by. How the lights were even still on with so much salt water corroding the circuits, I didn’t know. But I knew it wouldn’t last long.
All the guys seated around the sliding glass doors hooted appreciatively at the wave, then knocked cups as an impromptu toast to Mother Nature’s wrath.
