Page 36 of The Beach Trap

I’m able tosweet-talk my way past the front gate attendant at the luxury community where the Rooney estate is, and my memory leads me to the circular driveway that is just as perfectly tended as it always was.

With the well-manicured front lawn, palm trees waving inthe Gulf breeze, and exterior paint that looks like it was recently touched up, I’m more aware than ever of the differences between my house and the Rooneys’. Every aspect of their property has been well cared for and maintained, and the comparison makes me realize just how much we have to do at the beach house. Even more now, thanks to Blake’s errant disregard for other people’s property.

With my fury simmering, I slam the car door and march around back toward the pool and the casita where she’s staying. My fists are clenched, ready to bang on the front door so she knows I’m not messing around.

“Blake O’Neill is going to be sorry she came back into my life,” I mutter in an attempt to pump myself up. I might talk a good game, but the fact that conflict should be dealt with as discreetly as possible has been ingrained in me from a young age.

I flex my fingers before balling them back up again as I walk up to the casita. I square myself in front of the door and I’m about to knock when it opens.

“Oh,” Blake says, stepping back as if she didn’t expect to see me standing right outside. At her feet, the dog spins a circle and wags his tail as if he’s happy to see me.

There isn’t time to be annoyed that I didn’t get the pleasure of banging on the door, so I walk past Blake and into the little house—which is even smaller than I remember it.

Rosa, the housekeeper who lived in the casita when we were young, always kept a candy jar in her kitchen that CoCo and I used to sneak wrapped pieces of chocolate from. For a moment, I wonder what ever happened to Rosa—until I realize this isn’t the time for a stroll down memory lane. It’s the time to protect what’s mine.

“What are you doing here?” Blake asks. She sounds more confused than annoyed, which somehow gets me even more riled up.

“What am I doing here?” I repeat in an attempt to buy more time. I hadn’t thought much past pounding on her door.

I take another step back, bumping into the table where Blake’s laptop is sitting open. I accidentally read the title of the YouTube video she was watching, and just like that, I know exactly what to say.

“What areyoudoing here,” I say, motioning toward her cheap computer screen, “watching a tutorial on how to finish floors! If you have to look up how to do something, you shouldn’t be doing it. Especially to a house that doesn’t even belong to you!”

My hair falls into my face and I brush it away, irritated at the way Blake seems completely unaffected by my outburst. Her wispy blond hair is hanging casually in front of her face, her wide brown eyes focused on me as if she’s waiting for me to finish. But I’m not finished. I’m just getting started.

“I should’ve known not to trust you,” I say, my voice rising. “You lied about who you were when we met at camp, so I shouldn’t be surprised you lied about knowing what the hell you’re doing. Or not doing. Because I am not going to let you lay another finger on my house.”

Blake isn’t even looking at me now—which makes me even more irritated.

“Max, no,” she says, a reprimand in her voice.

Who the hell is Max?I’m about to ask when her dumb dog squats and pees at my feet. Dog urine splashes on my brand-new Kate Spade flip-flops and I think I might vomit.

“You made him do that,” I yell at Blake. My toes curl in disgust, and as much as I want to step out of the shoes, I don’t want to have to pick them up and touch them with my bare hands.

“I did not,” Blake says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I was about to take him out to go to the bathroom when you barged in here and started yelling. You made him nervous.”

I let out a nonsensical string of vowels and carefully step past Blake and back out the door.

I step—soiled flip-flops and all—onto the first step in the shallow end of the pool. The water is only ankle-deep, and I hope the chlorine will disinfect the shoes enough that I won’t have to toss them. They’re my favorite pair—zebra-print bottoms and black straps with the signature Kate Spade logo on top. But shoes can be replaced, I remind myself. The beach house and all the memories it holds can’t.

I turn around to face Blake—there isn’t so much as a smirk on her face, even though I know I must look ridiculous. If the roles were reversed, I’d be laughing hysterically.

“Why did you come here, Kat?” Blake asks, sounding more resigned than angry.

“Because you destroyed the kitchen,” I say, keeping my voice calm and steady.

“It’s part of the process,” she says. “I left you a note.”

“Where?” I ask. “I didn’t see anything.”

“On the kitchen counter. Inourhouse. It’s half mine, you know.”

“I didn’t see a note,” I tell her, ignoring the remark about her half ownership of the house—that’s just a technicality. It’s mine in all the ways that matter.

I step out of the pool. I don’t want Blake to be taller, looking down on me when I say this to her. “If we’re going to do this renovation thing, we’re going to do it right and hire help.”

“I don’t need—”

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