Page 1 of Reverie

PROLOGUE

Bloody sand coats my tongue as I crawl on the shore of Isla Cara.

The air smells thick and earthy as the storm approaches the island, and soon the winds and rain will wash away more of the sand and snap the palm trees like twigs.

It’s monsoon season, and a crack of lightning arcs across the night sky.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Thunder.

“You know why I had to do this. Right, Hunter?” Father sounds as if he’s sorry—remorseful.

I turn my head away from the ocean to stare at his bare feet. As he stands above me, his fists drip with blood.

My blood.

I try not to flinch when he crouches next to me.

“Hunter, you know it’s my responsibility to keep this family safe. To keep the Brigham name safe.”

I open my mouth to speak—to say what he wants me to say, which is that I understand—but a painful hacking cough is all that comes out.

Father curls his upper lip, disgust clear on his face.

He pulls a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his linen outfit, wiping his hands with slow precision.

“I don’t—” I start to speak, but the sharp ache in my ribs when I try to inhale and exhale stops me.

“I don’t know anything,” I spill. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I try to make him believe me. I call on everything he’s taught me about how to deceive: How to look like you’re telling the truth, even when you’re not.

But he’s the master at that game, just as he’s the master of everything.

Father sighs, and his face morphs. The mask falls.

“Get up.” He doesn’t need to yell. Menace is plain in his voice. I press my fingers into the sand, willing my body to rise. Father stands with a strong lunge, pulling me up with his broad hand anchored under my armpit.

I bite my lip to prevent a scream. More blood floods across my tongue.

He drags me across the sand and over to the stone steps that lead to the raised veranda. Yesterday, Father hosted a party with more than a dozen of his friends. Dignitaries, politicians, Hollywood movie stars.

Today, the space is empty—dead in the aftermath of all that happened on the marble floors.

I wish I could shake out the memories.

When we reach the landing, Father drops me to the floor, and I prevent my skull from cracking on the pavement at the last minute. I resist the urge to curl into a ball.

Father continues to walk away, heading toward the long bar at the center of the space.

Usually, Johan and a few other butlers would move around to serve the guests. The bar seats at least fifty people along the oval counter.

But now, Johan is dead.

Dead.

Dead because of me and my sin of the summer.

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