Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Grace popped her blond head out the window just as I began to shoot. Where Darcie’s hair was a sheet of silk, Grace’s was all wild curls with streaks of a blond so sun-kissed it was white. She jumped out the instant Aaron brought the vehicle to a stop and I saw that she was even tinier than she’d appeared in the photos I’d seen.
Five feet tall tops, all of it dangerous curves and bounce.
I couldn’t imagine her as a climber, but that was where she’d met Aaron—in a club for people who liked to battle the elements uphill and punish their knees scrabbling downhill. Aaron had told me of their courtship over a video call, laughing at himself as he shared that Grace had beaten him to the summit during their first climb together.
When I’d teased it must’ve been because he was focused on her butt, he’d looked so sheepish that I’d cracked up laughing.
“Oh my God! You must be Luna!” Grace jumped into my arms, her hug fierce and . . . good. Because some people just gave better hugs than others.
Like they really meant it.
“Hi,” I said after hugging her back more awkwardly.
Unabashed, she whipped off her mirrored sunglasses and beamed at me. No one would call her beautiful—her looks were too quixotic for that. Eyes that were slightly too large, along with a mouth that was a bit too wide, paired with a slender nose. But taken altogether when she was this animated?
Wow.
Grace was the kind of woman who could be a movie star. All charisma and a wild energy that reminded me of Bea. I took more photos as she hopped around greeting everyone else as if they were old friends, while Aaron smiled his shy smile that now shimmered with quiet pride.
A flicker at the corner of my eye, a sinuous shadow.
Shifting on my heel, I swiped out a hand. But if there’d been a bug there, it was gone.
My fingers fisted into my hand, the nails digging in.
“Luna, you want to ride with us up to the house?” Grace’s voice, bright and joyful and accented in a way that was difficult to pin down, thanks to what Aaron had told us was a peripatetic childhood.
I ignored the renewed flickering at the corner of my eye, the awareness of minuscule crystals eating up my peripheral vision. “You don’t want to rest here a bit?”
No, they said, they were keen to see the old Shepherd place. As was I. So I jumped into their Jeep, the three of us at the end of the cavalcade making its way through the rustling grasses and toward the looming bulk of the snow-covered mountains.
The route took us slightly upslope, the estate hidden beyond the rise.
As I sat in the back, scrolling through the photos I’d taken, I frowned. Grace photographed like a dream, but there was something slightly “off” about the images at the same time. The camera didn’t quite capture her eyes. Or it captured them in a shade of green that wasn’t true to life.
I’d have to see if I could fix the issue in postproduction. Speaking of photographs, though . . . “I could do an engagement-style shoot of you two while we’re out here,” I offered impulsively. “We can style it with whatever clothes you’ve brought along, use the natural surroundings.”
Grace squealed. “Are you serious?” She pressed her hands together. “I love your work. I secretly stalk your socials.” A whisper. “That Renaissance wedding shoot you did for the two brides? I died.”
Chuffed at the compliments, I said, “Consider the shoot officially booked.”
“I love you,” Grace said in a solemn voice. “In fact, I’m planning to dump Aaron and beg for your hand in marriage.”
My shoulders shook. I liked her. Really liked her. She was . . . so much like Bea.
Gut tight, I busied myself pretending to look at my photos again, all the while thinking of those final sun-drenched days with Bea. It had been our last summer together, all eight of us. Not here. Up north, in a hired wooden bach next to one of those lazy East Coast beaches.
Golden white sand, clear blue water, native palms against the sky.
Paradise.
Bea in her big floppy hat, the color ice-cream pink, and halter-neck swimsuit in meringue yellow. She’d looked like a glamorous movie star, especially after she slid on those big sunglasses of hers.
Not once during that glorious week had I glimpsed any hint of trouble in her. After . . . after, I’d done relentless research, discovered that mental health problems didn’t always show on the surface, but her supposed suicide still hadn’t made sense to me—because I hadn’t been a random bystander. I’d been part of her life for years.
Why hadn’t I seen?
Why had none of us seen?
Not even Darcie. Her big sister. Her supposed protector after their parents passed as Bea began her final year of high school. She’d been the youngest of her classmates, only turning eighteen in the last month of the school year.