Page 103 of Everything You Hate
“I can’t go back.” Rain streams down his face. His light hair is plastered to his skull. He looks younger suddenly. Frightened. “He’ll kill him.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
The boat pitches. A wave hits the starboard side. Spray arcs over the gunwale, cold salt water that soaks me to the skin. I brace against the cabin wall. My bag—the journal—is somewhere at my feet, wedged against a bench. Safe. For now.
“Jasper threatened him.” Abel’s hands shake on the wheel. “Three days ago. I heard it. Dad doesn’t know I heard.”
Another wave. The boat rolls. I grab the rail. My stomach lurches.
“The journal.” Abel’s voice breaks. “It was my father’s. Not Gus’s. Dad found it years ago in the attic of the old marina office. He’s been feeding Gus pieces of the real history for—Christ, Idon’t know. A decade? More? Little things. Hints. Enough that Gus could hold the truth without having to say it.”
The storm builds. Wind howls through the rigging. The boat takes another wave broadside. Water sloshes in the bottom. Ankle-deep now. Cold. My boots are full of it.
“Jasper overheard them.” Abel’s knuckles are bone-white on the wheel. “Dad and Gus. Talking in the hardware store. I don’t know what they said. I wasn’t there. But Jasper was. He cornered Dad the next day. I heard it from the sailboat. Dad’s voice. Jasper’s voice. Jasper said—” Abel stops. Swallows. “He said anyone who dismantles the Merrick legacy disappears. Those were the words.Disappears.And he meant it. I’ve known my uncle my whole life. I know when he means it.”
The boat pitches. I slide across the wet deck, catch the rail again. My fingers are numb. The cold has worked its way into my bones.
“Jasper searched your room.” Abel doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on the water ahead, on the storm, on whatever hell he’s steering us into. “Weeks ago. He knew the journal had surfaced. He thought you’d found it through research. The famous reporter digging into Merrick history. He was wrong about who took it. Right about everything else.”
My room. The balcony. The figure in the dark. Jasper standing over me while I slept, his hands going through my things, looking for the one document that could destroy his family’s narrative.
“The journal was never Gus’s.” I say it to make sure I understand. “Theodore found it. Gave it to Gus. Gus held it until I arrived, then passed it to me.”
Abel nods. A jerky, desperate motion. “Dad couldn’t stand it anymore. The lies. Watching another generation raised on the myth. Watching me get bullied for not being Merrick enough. Watching Corey and Bodhi—” He stops. Swallows. “He wantedthe truth to outlive the lie. That’s all. Just wanted someone to know.”
Water sloshes around my ankles. The boat lists to port. Abel corrects. The engine strains. We’re pushing into wind that feels like a wall.
“I didn’t know what else to do.” Abel’s voice cracks. He’s crying now. Hard, messy sobs that hitch his breath. “Jasper will kill him. I heard it in his voice. He’ll do it. And if the journal traces back to Dad—if Jasper figures out it was his own brother who handed the truth to a reporter—” He can’t finish. Doesn’t need to.
The wrongness of it settles over me. Not anger. Something colder. Clearer. Abel Merrick, twenty-three years old, standing at the wheel of a boat in a storm, crying for his father, because he believes the only way to save Theodore’s life is to get me off the island.
“You’re making it worse.” I have to shout over the wind. “Running solves nothing. Jasper’s threat doesn’t vanish because I do. If anything, my disappearance confirms the journal’s importance. Makes it worse. Theodore is still here. The journal is still real. The truth doesn’t change because I’m gone.”
Abel shakes his head. “If you’re gone, the pressure lifts. Jasper stops hunting. Dad lives. That’s all I care about.”
“That’s not how it works.” I cross the cockpit. Grab the wheel beside his hands. Our fingers brush. His are ice. “Turn around, Abel. Right now. We go back. We tell your father what you heard. We get him somewhere safe. Then we use the journal. Properly. With authentication. Documentation. The whole thing. Jasper doesn’t get to bury this. Not anymore.”
Another wave. Bigger. The boat rocks. The deck tilts. I lose my footing. Slam into the gunwale. My hip takes the impact. Pain flares. Abel reaches for me. Misses. The wheel spins. The boat veers sharply to starboard. The engine coughs. Dies.
Silence. The sudden absence of the engine’s growl is louder than the storm. The boat wallows. Water sloshes knee-deep now. The bilge pump whines. It’s not enough.
Abel fumbles for the radio. His hands are shaking so badly he drops the handset. Catches it. Raises it to his mouth.
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.” His voice is thin. Breaking. “This is sailing vessel—this is Abel Merrick. Vessel in distress. Position approximately two miles northwest of Port Haven breakwater. Taking on water. Engine failure. Two souls on board. Mayday.”
Static. More static. The handset crackles.
“Abel Merrick, this is Coast Guard Station Port Haven. Copy your Mayday. Stand by for position confirmation.”
A voice. Human. Real. Coming through the storm.
Abel sobs. Once. Hard. “Copy. Standing by.”
The boat lists. Water pours over the gunwale. The deck tilts. I grab the rail. The surface is fifteen feet away and getting farther. The boat is going.
“Scarlett.” Abel’s voice is small. “I’m sorry. About Dean. I didn’t?—”
