Page 73 of Shark Cove

“None taken.” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any regrets, in hindsight?”

“Nope,” Lei said. “Especially not about what happened with Cruz.” Lei would never forget the unusual experience she’d had with Harry’s mysterious martial arts trainer.

“What about Cruz?”

“His training was . . . unique.” Lei felt an old betraying blush. “But very effective.”

“I wondered if he’d used some of his tantra magic on you.” Harry grinned at Lei. “He wouldn’t do any of that with me, no matter how I tried to provoke a reaction.”

“Sometimes, people come into our lives briefly, but it’s a moment that will change everything. And sometimes, a person turns up again, just when they’re supposed to, to be there always.” Lei gave Harry’s knee a smack. “You, sistah. I want you and your family to be in my life, always.”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “You’re stuck with me now.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

One month later. . .

Sitting on the plane on the way back to Maui, Malia put a period on the end of the sentence of the newest Wallflower Diaries post and scanned through it one more time.

The new design of the site was much more serious than the old one: a black border with a grunge font that spelled outWhenWallflower Watchesand signaled a more serious tone—but the subtitle “The Wallflower is everywhere because it’s YOU” was the same.

Malia had created her latest post as a cartoon: a stick figure, representative of a student, leaned tiredly on his desk with a thought balloon over his head:SO TIRED. How am I going to get through that calculus test?

Next frame:lightbulb!I heard someone on campus has some ADHD meds that will wake me up.

Next frame: Stick figure texting with conversation bubble overhead:Text the secret number for prescription of choice, pay online, and pick up behind the toilet in stall #3 of the Boys’ Restroom. Got it.

Final frame:“Is this happening on our campus? Text the Wal-flwr if you know for sure!”

Lei had asked Malia to be registered as a ‘confidential informant’ for the MPD. In discussing it, Harry had told Malia she could keep the website if she tipped her mom off when and if crimes were taking place in the community. “If you can turn that site into something good, it could be training for you as a journalist or even a detective in the future,” Harry said. “And if you’re ever identified as the Wallflower, being a CI could help protect you legally.”

Spying on her classmates to share gossip was one thing, turning them in to the cops was another; but on the other hand, Malia was concerned about growing prescription drug problems at school, and a series of robberies of lockers she’d heard about at Maui High.

She’d decided to go ahead and become a CI and keep the site going, expanding her info to cover all the county’s schools, and this tip about a prescription drug ring had come from the Wallflower burner number. She was eager to sink her teeth into who was behind it—because if prescription drugs were being sold to kids, not far up the supply chain was an adult with medical privileges.

Malia got off the plane after it landed, stiffness from the long flight home from France tightening her neck. The familiar windy warmth of Maui enfolded her as she stepped out into the baggage pickup area. Palm trees outside the airport gyrated in their usual afternoon dance, and off in the distance, the blue-purple folds of Iao Valley created a dramatic cloud-topped backdrop welcoming her home even more than the rainbow-colored sign over the receiving gate. “No place like home,” she said aloud.

“Lucky girl.” One of her fellow passengers overheard her and smiled in passing.

“Yes, I am.”

Being with Camille and her aunt in France for the last few weeks had been wonderful, and probably the best possible therapy Camille could have had. Even so, there had been many nights her friend had trouble sleeping. Bouts of tears took them by surprise during the day, triggered by the sight of a father and daughter together, or something that reminded Camille of the family and life she’d lost.

Aunt June had the look of her brother Leonard William—big and brash, with a chin like the prow of a ship, and thick, prematurely white hair. She was practical and funny and her theme for the trip had been “walk it off.”

So they’d walked all over France.

They’d put miles on their shoes walking through Paris’s narrow, cobbled streets, exploring street fairs, museums and architectural wonders, and when they left the city, they’d driven outward to explore the countryside, and hiked through the Pyrenees.

Malia had toned up despite indulgence in everything from cheeses to chocolates, and her favorite ‘Camille jeans’ only stayed on because she wore a belt. She’d tired of her long hair, and Camille had convinced her to cut it in Paris. Freed from the weight of its length, carefree curls tossed around her shoulders.

Malia picked up her luggage at the carousel and waited at the curb until the Honda, with its MAMACOP plates, wove through traffic to pull up at the curb. Harry jumped out from the front with Dad close behind, but Kylie reached her first, throwing her arms around Malia’s waist. “I missed you!”

Harry and Peter joined the hug. “That was too long for me,” her mom whispered into Malia’s ear. “And where did all your hair go?”

“I was ready to lighten up.”

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