Page 1 of Oathbreaker

PROLOGUE

Istand on the shore of Isla Cara as five men pray to the god of the island.

While the sun made its trek over the horizon, their screams echoed from the bowels of the mansion. They marched to the altar, and their voices lifted on the wind like the angel of death sprinting through Moses’ Egypt. Just like that one kid’s movie the nuns showed us on a rainy Friday afternoon.

The sound reached me in my room, where their pleas crashed into my eardrums.

It’s summer, and instead of staying at St. Regis Prep in Connecticut as I have for the last eight grades, Father decided it was time that I spend the entire summer with him on Isla Cara.

My schoolmates, who I’ve spent most of those summers with since kindergarten, were jealous.

Until now, I’ve spent a few weeks on the island here and there, but never this long of a stretch.

Father, five men, ten guards, the Polancos, and Alistair, my father’s right-hand man, make up the group on the beach.

And me. I’m here too.

A guard pushes me, and I barely catch myself before I hit the sand face-first.

“Are these all of them?” Father asks one of his guards once I am close enough to hear his voice.

Alistair’s cultured voice is low as he murmurs, “Yes.”

“Excellent,” Father says with a pleasant tone.

Five men settle into the sand, motionless.

Resigned.

I’ve seen this scene many times, so I flick my hands at the wrist to stop their shaking and keep my eyes locked on my father’s back. Still, I notice when Alistair’s eyes land on me, and I suppress a shiver.

Watching me. Watching me. He’s always watching me.

Miguel Polanco and his son, Leo, stand off to the side. Smoke billows from Mr. Polanco’s Marlboro, and Leo takes up space one step behind him.

I move to a spot near Leo—not in his space, but close enough to feel comforted standing next to my best friend. But the stink of alcohol rises off Leo’s father, making my nausea worse.

My father takes one step, then another, until he’s staring down at the man who used to bring Father’s friends from nearby Martinique to Isla Cara. The light tan linen shirt and matching pants Father wears—along with being barefoot—would have made anyone else look friendly. Vulnerable.

Benjamin Brigham isn’t a weak man. There’s nothing he cares about enough to make him so.

“Do you wish to confess your sins?” Father looks down at the dry-eyed man. Pressing his lips together, the man’s fists clench where they’re handcuffed behind his back.

“Very well,” Father says with a short sigh. He shakes his head with a look of disappointment I’ve seen often.

Father walks down the line of men and back again, taking slow, sure steps in the sand.

“Here’s the problem,” Father begins. “I’ve paid you well, have I not?” He pauses with his hands outstretched to emphasize his point. “Have I not set your families up to live a good life on your shithole islands across the ocean?”

He shakes his head while looking at the man in the middle. The accused stares at the sand as if he could count every grain.

“I have done all this, and yet you decided to go against me. What reason could you possibly have?” Father resumes his pacing and pulls a small device out of his pocket.

“A camera? Really, Johan?”

He spins the item—not much larger than a tube of lip balm—in his hand.

“Was it more money? Is that it? Did they offer you more money to spy on me?” If one didn’t know my father, they would think he sounded hurt. Upset. Sad.

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