“Look, it’s not what you think. Kyle’s changed. He admits what he did to you, and that he made a mistake. That’s the whole reason he’s here. He wants to make amends.”

“He can make them to me,” Drew said, shoving his chin in Caleb’s face.

“Jesus, Sabrina, who is this guy?” Caleb demanded. “Call him off, will you?”

I’d successfully dragged the dogs away—though it hadn’t been easy, since they were so strong—and was busy tying their leashes to the porch railing. “No. He’s my friend. And he’s a lot better friend to me than you ever were. He knows all about what happened, and he doesn’t think I overreacted.”

Cal, seeming to feel that he was out of at least 50 percent of the danger he’d been in now that the dogs were tied up, sagged against the door, though he still managed to look sheepish. “Look, it wasn’t that I thought you overreacted. I just thought you could be a little more compassionate. You know Kyle’s always had a substance abuse problem—”

“So that means he should be allowed to go around assaulting women in their sleep?” Drew demanded.

“N-no. Not at all.” Cal’s eyes were as wide as nickels. “You’re right. That shouldn’t be an excuse. It’s just that occasionally he acts a little—”

I couldn’t stand to hear any more. “Where is he?”

Drew looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re not actually going to talk to him, are you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am.” To Caleb, I asked again, “Where is he?”

Caleb looked nervous. “He’s inside. In the kitchen. But, Bree, I think I should come with—”

“Stay here and keep an eye on him,” I said to Drew. “I’ll be right back.”

Drew shook his head. “Oh, no. I’m not letting you go in there alone.”

I shouldered my backpack. “I’ll be fine. Trust me. I need to do this.”

Drew’s look of alarm didn’t decrease much, but something in my face must have told him how serious I was, since he stopped arguing. “Okay. But at least take the dogs.”

“No.” I shook my head and patted the backpack. “This will be enough. Whatever you hear, do not come inside.”

Caleb glanced worriedly from me to Drew. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Drew shrugged. “It means she’s got some things to settle.”

I smiled at him, surprised that he remembered. “Right.”

“So whatever she says, goes. Bree”—Drew dug into one of his many pockets, then threw a small black object he’d found inside it toward me—“here.”

I caught it. It was the walkie-talkie his aunt had given us.

“Oh,” I said. “Great, thanks.” I had no intention of using it, but I put it into my backpack anyway. “If I’m not out in five minutes, you can send in the dogs.”

Drew nodded. He seemed more comforted by this than by the presence of the walkie-talkie. “Okay.”

“Wait.” Caleb did not seem comforted at all. “What? What does that mean, send in the dogs? I don’t understand. What’s going on? What’s any of that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Drew said. “Just stay out here with me if you don’t want to get hurt.”

“Hurt?” I heard Caleb bleat as I moved behind him to open the front door. “She’s going to hurt someone?”

“Maybe.” Drew sounded bored. “What are you going to do about it, call the cops? Don’t you think that might be overreacting a little? If you want to run down the middle of the street yelling for the police, please, be my guest. I won’t stop you. The dogs might, but I won’t.”

I closed the door behind me. The air inside the house was cool, and I realized the place had a working generator, but a much quieter one than the Hartwells’. The home was decorated in the same soft beach tones as the front of the house, cream and bluish gray. The décor was modern, but in the chicest of tastes, the pine walls stripped of paint and glossed to a high sheen, the way I’d always imagined the inside of an old-fashioned coffin might look. All of the electronics were high end, but discreetly hidden within alcoves and wall panels so as not to clash with the nineteenth-century architecture.

Late-afternoon sunlight was streaming into the kitchen at the back of the house from a set of glass French doors that had been thrown open to reveal a long dipping pool that hadn’t seemed to have sustained any damage from the storm—or, if it had, someone had been paid to clean it up. Along the back of the pool was a high, black-tiled wall, from which poured a waterfall that was already back in working order, consuming precious electric energy from the generator.

Kyle’s back was to me. He was mixing a pitcher of margaritas.

“So rehab worked out well for you, I see,” I said sarcastically from the doorway.

He spun around, surprised, then gave me a big smile. He, too, was dressed in the height of Hamptons elegance, tight white jeans and a beige cashmere sweater thrown casually over his shoulders, only his shirt was yellow. He was maybe even a little blonder than Cal, and definitely tanner. Rehab had suited him.

“Sabrina!” he cried. “I like what you’ve done to your hair.”

“Do you? I’m glad.” I reached into my backpack and pulled out the gun Ed had loaned me. As Kyle watched, wide-eyed, I drew back the safety and pointed it at him.

“Get on the floor,” I said.

He burst out laughing. “You can’t be serious.”

I aimed the gun at a bottle of Cuervo sitting on the counter behind him and pulled the trigger. The bottle exploded into a thousand pieces of glass, none of which likely hit him, considering the trajectory of the bullet, which went sailing through the bottle, then past the French doors and into the black-tiled wall behind the waterfall.

Kyle yelled anyway and threw his arms over his head protectively.

“Get on the floor,” I said again, when he was done yelling. I could hardly hear my own voice, thanks to the deafening sound of the shot.

“Oh my God,” Kyle cried. “You’re crazy, you stupid bitch! You could have killed me!”

“No,” I said calmly, “but I will, if you aren’t more polite to me. Now get on the ground, or next time I’ll aim for you and not the tequila.”

Reluctantly, his hands in the air, he sank to his knees. This was clearly difficult for him, because his jeans were so form-fitting.

“I’m sorry.” He seemed to be taking me more seriously now. “I didn’t mean to call you a bitch.”

“I should hope not, especially since I understand you came here to make amends.”

“Yes!” He looked like he’d only just remembered. “Step nine! I’m here to make amends to those I have harmed through my drinking.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Except that’s sort of hard to believe considering the fact that you’re drinking right now.”

“Well.” He glanced at the shards of glass covering the black tile floor behind him. “I know. This looks bad. But no one is perfect.”

“That’s true,” I said. “And who am I to judge? Except that in your particular case, I’m going to. I don’t accept your apology, Kyle.”