Page 102 of Everything You Hate
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Scarlett
I run toward the lights. Toward Dean. The rain drives sideways, stinging my face, soaking my sweater until it clings to my skin like something alive. Abel shouts behind me—words I can’t catch, lost in the wind and the hammer of rain on the dock boards. I don’t stop. Don’t slow. The cluster of figures at the far end of the main dock grows clearer through the gray. Someone kneeling. Someone standing. Someone holding a flashlight that swings wildly in the wind.
Abel’s hand closes around my arm. Hard. He yanks me sideways off the main dock onto a narrower finger that juts into the harbor. My boots slip on wet wood. I catch the rail. The harbor churns below, black water heaving against the pilings.
“This way,” he shouts. The wind tears his voice apart. “Hurry.”
“The main dock—Dean’s there?—”
“He’s not.” Abel pulls me forward. His grip is iron. “The clinic truck left ten minutes ago. Bodhi drove him.”
Relief floods me. Dean’s at the clinic. He’s being treated. The journal sits in my bag. Evangeline’s words. The truth. Everything we’ve fought for. I can breathe.
Then why is Abel’s hand shaking?
We reach the end of the finger dock. A small boat rocks in its slip—not one of Dean’s tour vessels. Something private. A runabout, maybe twenty feet, cabin forward, open stern. The hull is white with a blue stripe. No name I can see through the rain.
Abel jumps aboard. Holds out his hand. “Come on.”
“I need to get to the clinic.”
“It’s faster this way. Trust me.”
I don’t trust him. Something in his face is wrong—too pale, too tight, his eyes darting between me and the harbor mouth and the storm building overhead. But Dean is hurt. Dean asked for me. I take his hand and step down into the boat.
The deck pitches under my feet. I grab the gunwale. Abel is already at the console, key in the ignition. The engine turns over. Catches. A deep rumble beneath the boards. He casts off the lines with quick, practiced movements. The boat drifts backward from the dock. Abel shoves the throttle forward. We’re moving.
Rain hammers the windshield. The wipers struggle. Abel stands at the wheel, his body braced against the pitch and roll, his knuckles white on the controls. The harbor mouth opens ahead of us—a gap between the breakwater and the shore, water churning white where the harbor meets the sound.
I look back. The marina lights are swinging. The cluster of figures on the main dock—they’re not tending to an injured man. They’re securing boats. Hauling lines. Moving with the urgent rhythm of people battening down before a storm. No ambulance. No Bodhi. No Dean.
The island shrinks behind us. The harbor falls away. The boat points into open water. Away from Port Haven. Away from the clinic.
“Abel.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. “Turn around.”
He doesn’t answer. The throttle pushes forward. The engine growls. We’re picking up speed.
“Abel. Now.”
“I can’t.”
“Dean’s not at the clinic.” It’s not a question.
He shakes his head. Once. Sharp.
The lie lands. Actually lands, like something physical hitting my chest. Dean was never hurt. There was never blood. Never a fallen mast. Abel looked me in the eye in Shea’s kitchen and told me Dean was dying, and I believed him because the alternative was unthinkable.
I cross the cockpit in two steps and grab the wheel. My hand closes over his. The boat veers. Water slaps the hull. Abel shoves my hand off. Hard. The boat corrects. I stumble backward, catch myself on the cabin door.
“Don’t.” His voice cracks. “Please. Just listen.”
“Turn this boat around.”
