Page 30 of These Summer Storms

Of course they were nervous, knowing that they shouldn’t be there, and not realizing she’d keep their secret. She hadn’t seen them since they were nine and four. Alice had been so excited to be Aunt Alice back then, and she’d done the job, taking Saoirse to the circus and finger painting with Oliver. They’d been wild about her—the benefit of being a teacher. But she’d lost them when she’d lost everyone else five years earlier.

And now, it felt too late to win them back.

Before she could prove she wasn’t a narc, Jack called out, “Alice.”

The sound of her name curled through her, deep and full of something approximating…she didn’t know what. Kindness? Pity? Probably pity, she decided as she turned to face Jack, who hadn’t moved from his spot. Those serious gray eyes held her there, in the room, even as shetold herself to turn and leave this chaos to those who’d inherited it. Who wanted it. “What?”

“You’re not out.”

He’d left her a letter, after all.She hated that she was grateful for it.

A bark from Sam (he must have thought it didn’t count as speaking) was followed by a translation from Sila. “What? She doesn’t get a task, but she does get the money in the end? That issounfair!”

The protest did not garner sympathy.

“That’s the point,” Emily said.

“None of it is fair,” Greta said, her voice heavy with something Alice couldn’t name. “It’s never been fair.”

“Franklin never cared about fairness,” Elisabeth said, lifting the lemon rind from her glass and taking a bite of it, sweet to her bitter. “So. Alice doesn’t have to play and wins nonetheless.”

It wasn’t a win. It all felt awful. She shook her head and told the truth (a mistake). “I don’t want to play.”

“Oh, please. None of us do, Alice,” Greta snapped. “Suck it up.”

She looked to Jack. “Where’s my letter, then?”

“You didn’t get a letter,” Jack said. It was definitely pity. “But your father left you a task, nonetheless.”

“And what, you’re assigned to deliver the blow directly?”

He nodded, the movement stilted. Almost like he regretted it. Which of course he didn’t. If her father trusted Jack with playing judge, jury, and executioner for this ridiculous game, then Jack had known exactly what he was walking into. What he’d be doing that morning.

And what about last night? Had that been part of it?

She pushed the thought out of her mind, locking it away, along with all the memories she might have treasured before he’d turned up that morning and made her loathe him for knowing more than she did about her own future.

“You have to stay,” he said. “For the entire week.”

She laughed in disbelief. “No. I really don’t.”

It had been five years since she’d been there, and she owed them nothing. She didn’t have to do her father’s bidding. And she didn’t have to stay with her family as they sniped at each other and vied for their lotinstead of grieving. And she certainly didn’t have to listen to this man who’d made her like him before he lied to her and embarrassed her.

“That’s the requirement.” He reached down into his bottomless backpack and pulled out a document. The details of the trust, no doubt. “Your father was very clear; your only task is to stay on Storm Island for the week.”

Of course it was. Franklin had probably loved making that plan—bringing her back to the island for one final moment of control. A reminder that he remained the most powerful man in the room even now, even dead.

“But that’s such an easy task,” Sila protested. “It’s bullshit!”

“Language,” Elisabeth murmured.

“Sila’s not wrong, though,” Alice pointed out. “And you all know it. This is all bullshit. No way is Dad going to relinquish control when some boats get descaled and a few nice things get said about him and whatever Greta and Emily have to do. There’s a second round to this game. And a third, atleast.”

A flood of emotion came, but Alice was quick enough to select the most powerful. Determination. “I, for one, choose not to play it. I’m out. You can have my cut. I’ll be one less billionaire for the world to contend with. Let me know when you’re ready to get back to planning a funeral.”

“Not a funeral,” Elisabeth corrected her. “Acelebration.”

“Right. Can’t wait.” God forbid they get anything like closure out of this. Alice turned on her heel and made for the door, feeling pretty proud of herself—so proud, in fact, that she was considering calling her therapist, after all.

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