Shadowlands (Shadowlands 1)

I stood up, dusting the sand from my legs. Another wave of nausea hit me, and I instinctively grabbed for Tristan’s arm. I took a breath, cleared my throat, and let him go to stand on my own.

“There was one other thing,” I said. “His messenger bag. He left it hanging on my fence, and it was full of tiny lighthouses.”

Joaquin blinked. “There’s no lighthouse on Juniper Landing.”

I felt my heart start to fall. I’d thought we were getting somewhere.

“There used to be,” Tristan said.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What do you mean?” Joaquin asked.

“It was situated at the northwest point,” he said, looking startled but resigned. “They took it down because people…visitors…kept getting hurt up there. But the foundation is still there. And so is the lighthouse keeper’s cottage.”

“How did I not know this?” Joaquin asked.

Tristan fiddled with his bracelet. “We never go up there. Unless we’re going to the bridge,” he said, glancing at Krista. All the friends exchanged knowing looks. Clearly, this meant something to them.

“He wanted me to find him,” I said, shaking. “He was planning this all along, and now he has his bait.”

Tristan took a step forward. “But he didn’t plan on all of us coming with you.”

I looked around at them. At Lauren and Krista, Fisher, Bea, and Kevin, all the others whose names I didn’t know. Even Joaquin. All of them were willing to help me—to help Darcy. All of them were willing to risk everything to save her. I didn’t understand why, but I was grateful. Standing in their midst, I felt safe. I felt like it was still possible that everything could be okay.

I glanced over at Tristan hopefully. His eyes were determined but somehow sad.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Joaquin said. “Let’s go get her.”

We drove to the northwest point of the island in silence, me wedged in the front seat of an old, rusty pickup truck between Joaquin and Tristan, with Krista’s sneakered feet on my thigh. Joaquin was driving, and Krista sat sideways on Tristan’s lap. Three cars full of the others trailed behind us, their headlights occasionally catching in the rearview mirror, blinding me at random intervals.

The light filled the car. The jarring crunch as the truck slammed into our bumper. Darcy screaming. My dad desperate at the wheel. Then the weightlessness, the pain, the terror. My father dead splayed on the ground.

“Take a left here,” Tristan said.

I slammed back into the present. I realized I was clutching Tristan’s arm, and I slowly released my grip. He looked me in the eye, but not in a disturbed or judging way. He looked at me as if he understood.

Joaquin leaned over the steering wheel, squinting into the darkness through the windshield. “Where?”

“Right there!” Tristan said, raising his voice for the first time since I’d known him.

I spotted the dirt road at the exact same time as Joaquin, and then the truck veered left and the tires squealed, kicking up sand and dirt behind us. I gripped Tristan’s shoulder as we made the turn. Krista’s head banged against the passenger-side window.

“Ow,” she said plainly, rubbing at it.

No one asked if she was all right. Everyone was too focused on the small, wind-battered cottage bobbing in and out of view as Joaquin navigated the bumpy road. My sister was inside that house. Alive or dead, she was there. I was sure of it.

The fog clung to the bay like the meringue on top of a lemon pie, and a few fingers of mist curled around the base of the house. Off to our left was the bridge, a tall, coppery structure with two towers, leading from the island off into the fog. It was even bigger than I’d thought, hovering over the water like a massive alien structure.

“Stop here,” Tristan said. Joaquin hit the brakes, parking just around the bend from the cottage, the car camouflaged by a huge forest of overgrown reeds.

“Kill the lights,” Tristan instructed. Joaquin did as ordered.

Behind us, the other cars cut their lights as well and rolled to a stop. Several car doors popped. Within seconds, the rest of the group had gathered around our truck, hoods drawn, flashlights off.

“What do we do now?” Fisher asked, his voice deep. His nostrils were wide, his jaw set. He looked like he was ready to rumble.

“We go in.” Joaquin started to open his door, but I felt a surge of panic and grabbed his shoulder.