Page 17 of The Beach Trap

I glance at Harriet Beaver, whose mouth has fallen open.

“So...” I say. “She’s the other owner.”

CHAPTER FIVE

KAT

My hands are literally shaking from anger, which makes washing them difficult. I cringe as water splashes from the sink and lands in giant droplets on my silk peasant blouse. I turn off the faucet and grab one of the hand towels monogrammed with a blueSfor “Steiner,” clutching it as if it’s proof this house belongs to me.

Dabbing at the wet spots only makes them worse, and I wish I could get a do-over of the last five minutes. My father would be disappointed at the way I barreled in. As far as he was concerned, emotions were a sign of weakness, and they had no business being at the table in a negotiation—a fact he drilled into my mind from a very young age.

While other dads were reading fairy tales to their little girls, mine taught me to hold my cards close to my chest, to never let anyone see how much I wanted something. The goal, he’d say, wasn’t to play nice or make friends, but to get what you wanted and come out on top.

Not great advice for the playground in third grade when I wanted to be captain of the dodgeball team, but it would havecome in handy today. I wonder if this was the moment he’d been training me for my whole life—and once again, I let him down.

Exhaling a deep breath, I look in the mirror. I hardly recognize this angry version of myself—my shoulders are stiff, my jaw is clenched, and my heart hasn’t stopped racing since this morning when I got the text that sent me hurrying to Destin to stop Blake.

I was enjoying a little self-care, getting a mani-pedi on Briarcliff, when my phone buzzed with a text from Nicole “CoCo” Rooney, one of my oldest and closest friends.

The Rooney family owns one of the largest underwear companies in the world, almost as big as Hanes or Fruit of the Loom. When we were growing up, Rooney Undergarments were synonymous with granny panties and supportive underthings for women of a certain age, but a few years ago they launched UnderRooneys, a line of hip and fun bras, panties, and boxers for millennials. One of my first brand partnerships was with UnderRooneys, thanks to CoCo.

We don’t see each other often since she lives in Boston and I’m in Atlanta, but her family has a beach house—well, more like a beach mansion—down the road from ours.

This morning, I’d been sitting at the salon with my right hand under the blue light, OPI Cajun Shrimp polish hardening on my nails, when I saw CoCo’s name pop up on the screen. I smiled until I read her message:Damn, I wish I knew you were in Destin this week!

I borrowed my hand back from the manicurist long enough to text back a single question mark.

A few minutes later, another message popped up saying she’d seen a car parked at my grandparents’ beach house and assumed it was mine.

At first, I was confused—no one had used the beach housein years—and then it hit me with a sudden, blinding rage.That bitch.Callahan had mentioned Blake was going to get an appraisal, but I never expected she would go gallivanting around like she owned the place.

I left the salon before my toes even dried and sped through two yellow lights on my way home. I was there just long enough to throw some clothes in a bag before I hit the road.

I’d hoped the five-hour drive would calm me down—I even blasted old-school Kelly Clarkson and scream-sang along with the windows down, trying to release my rage. But it didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse.

The music triggered a memory from camp. Our counselor, Rainbow, loved angsty rock and was teaching herself how to play “Since U Been Gone” and “Miss Independent” on guitar. Blake and I thought she was the coolest. Of course, my judgment was shit back then—I also thought Blake was best friend material.

It still makes my head hurt to think about that last day at camp. I’d already been out of sorts, sad about my grandfather, sad about leaving camp and Blake. She hadn’t just been my best camp friend—she’d been mybestfriend. The girl who killed a spider so I wouldn’t have to, who didn’t tell anyone I was scared of the dark, who stayed in the shallow end of the lake with me because I got nervous when my feet couldn’t touch the ground.

But she was also the girl who lied to my face every single day that summer. Our entire friendship had been built on a lie; she used me to try to get to my father.

The quiet murmur of voices on the other side of the door reminds me that the real estate agent is still out there, talking to Blake as if she’s the rightful owner.

I lock eyes with my reflection and remind myself I am not twelve years old anymore, and I am not going to let Blake O’Neilltake what’s mine. It didn’t work fifteen years ago when she tried to break up my family, and it’s not going to work now.

One more deep breath, and I grab the monogrammedStowel, clutching it like it’s a tallit, a Jewish prayer shawl. I’ve never been very religious, but I have a feeling I’m going to need the help of a higher power to stay calm out there.

I open the door and step back into the hallway. With my head held high, I try to exude the confidence that comes with knowing that you’re right. I walk past Blake, who’s standing in the living room with her wispy blond hair and the same lost-puppy look she had on the first day of camp before I asked if she wanted to share a bunk. She’s wearing cheap flip-flops, and I’m glad I didn’t change out of my heels so I have a few inches on her.

“Thanks so much for coming,” I tell the real estate agent, my voice dripping with false cheer, “but we won’t be needing your services.”

“Wait,” Blake says. “You can’t just—”

I turn and give Blake a conversation-ending look. Her face goes slack, and if we didn’t have all this history and bad blood between us, I might feel bad for her. But we do, and I don’t.

“Thanks for coming,” Blake says to the woman, an apology in her voice. “I’ll be in touch.”

The real estate agent gives a pained smile, then bolts out of the house faster than if she’d found out the place was infested. Which I suppose it is. Only instead of roaches or ants, there’s just one unwelcome pest.

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