Page 30 of Fake Dark Vows

“Then you wouldn’t understand. If Damon wins, it’ll set the tone for the rest of the week.” Perhaps some kind of acknowledgement was expected during this pause, because Brandon fills the silence himself when I don’t play ball. “My father plays by his own rules, and he expects his sons to do the same.”

Before I can ask him to explain, he checks out a message on his phone and then makes a call. “Artie?” he says, walking a few steps away from us because he’s obviously used to speaking in privacy. “Brandon Weiss. Where can I find you?”

He ends the call with a smile of satisfaction which settles on me and Georgie for half a beat before he remembers that we’re not supposed to be there.

“Come with me,” he says. “I need you to record the evidence.”

“For prosperity,” I mutter under my breath, “or so that you can plead your innocence in a court of law?”

He must not hear me because he turns around and walks away without another glance in our direction. And we follow. Because Brandon Weiss isn’t the kind of guy who gets disobeyed, but I can’t help wondering if this is how his mom pictured the game being played when she was planning the birthday celebrations.

Artie greets Brandon with a wide smile and a clap on the shoulder when we find him on the busy marina strip next to a stand selling shiny pink conch shells. The women walking by check out his muscled tanned legs and broad shoulders. He waves to several people, and eyes up everyone else as if this is what he does for a living: professional tourist greeter. No one goes unnoticed.

His hands when he takes mine are warm, his eyes filled with sunshine. He kneels in front of Georgie and pulls a shiny pink shell from his pocket which he presents to her with a wink. “I’ve been looking for a princess to take care of my special shell,” he says. “Can you do that for me?”

Georgie, open-mouthed, takes the shell and nods.

Standing, Artie says, “Beautiful family you have here, Brandon.”

The color drains from Brandon’s face, and I suck on my bottom lip to stop myself from smiling. I could correct Artie, but after the silent treatment Brandon gave us on the boat, I don’t see why I should. He’ll make sure I’m on the first economy flight back to New York after today anyway—I might as well let him know that I’m not one of his employees he’s used to bossing around.

“So,” Artie continues, unfazed, “what’s this all about?”

“We’re taking part in a treasure hunt,” Brandon says. “We’ve been set challenges around the islands, and playing a tune on a conch is one of them.”

I don’t know if it’s because he is out of his comfort zone standing here in a busy resort in the Florida Keys, or because he’s so cool platinum to Artie’s warm gold, but I find myself wishing that I could inject some life into his voice. Inject some life into him. I wonder if Brandon Weiss ever laughs out loud or gets pizza sauce on his chin or slobs out in front of the TV with a cold beer and a packet of Doritos.

If he doesn’t, then someone should tell him what he’s been missing.

“Well, you’re in the right place.” Artie gestures to the man behind the conch stand who produces a large conch and hands it to Brandon. “I warn you now though—it isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“I only need to get a simple tune out of it,” Brandon says.

Artie’s eyes slide my way, and he winks at me. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

He hands the conch to Brandon who raises it to his lips and blows. He must not have heard the words ‘It isn’t as easy as it looks’ because his eyes narrow and his cheeks turn pink when the resulting sound is more asthmatic wheeze than soulful tune.

Artie smiles and takes the shell back. “See here,” he says, pointing to the cut-off spiral shape at the end, “you press your lips to the hole. Ever played trumpet or clarinet?” When Brandon tells him that he hasn’t, he demonstrates the correct way to shape his lips, and asks him to try again.

Brandon blows into the shell until sweat starts to bead on his forehead, and still only manages to sound like a cow with a cold.

Georgie giggles and tugs my hand. “What is Uncle Bran doing?” she asks.

“He’s trying to make the shell sing,” I say, suppressing my own laughter.

Brandon isn’t laughing. He’s clearly used to excelling at everything.

“Deep breath. Expand your diaphragm,” Artie says, placing a hand flat against Brandon’s stomach as he raises the shell to his lips again.

He barely produces a sound that’s even remotely tuneful before the conch reverts to its default mode of aging-smoker-lungs.

“Was that an A-flat?” I ask because I can no longer hold it in and because what’s to lose at this point?

Brandon sucks in a deep breath and examines the conch as if Artie has deliberately handed him a faulty instrument to make him look foolish. He offers it to me and says, “Why don’t you try?”

“No.” I shake my head and step backwards barely missing the front paws of a chihuahua wearing a diamante-studded collar. The owner yanks the dog up into her arms and scowls at me. “I’m so sorry,” I say to her receding back. She has dirt smudged across the seat of her white shorts, and I hope that no one tells her.

“Sure, you should try it.” Artie takes the shell and stands beside me, so close I can smell his coconut-scented shampoo. His fingers brush mine as he shows me the correct way to hold the conch, and he leans closer still, pursing his lips to demonstrate.

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