Page 43 of The Beach Trap

Without the music, the silence between us feels awkward, and I don’t do awkward. Henry doesn’t either, judging by the way he’s shifting his weight back and forth on his feet.

“What are you working on?” I ask, nodding toward the ceiling.

His face relaxes and he breaks into an easy smile that brings his dimple out. “Took out the old fluorescent box lights and I’m replacing them with can lights. It’s going to look like a whole new room. Blake has a great—”

“Ugh,” I say interrupting him.

Henry furrows his brow, looking confused.

“Just hearing her name sends my anxiety through the roof,” I tell him.

Before I can stop myself, the words start tumbling out. Words I haven’t been able to say to my mom because she’s already so broken and I don’t want to cause any more damage. Words I haven’t said to CoCo because I’m genetically programmed to give a shit what people think about me and my family. And even though Henry counts as “people,” something about him makes it easier to open up.

“Blake’s not even pretending this isn’t just about money for her,” I tell Henry. “But I wonder if there’s a part of her that wants to twist the knife in my heart, you know? It’s not enough I lost my dad; now she’s trying to take this house away from me, too. It’s like she resents me for being the one who got to grow up with him—but let me tell you, being David Steiner’s daughter wasn’t all sunshine and roses. He was—”

I stop myself before I say something I’ll regret. My dad wasn’t perfect, but he was my dad, and like my mom says, his memory should be a blessing. Everyone has flaws, but no one wants to be remembered for them.

Yet another reason I need Blake O’Neill out of my life: she reminds me of the worst of my dad when I want to remember the best.

“She’s trying to ruin my life,” I tell Henry, who is looking at me like he’s afraid I might break. But I’m not fragile. I’m strong, damn it. As if to prove it to myself, I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, standing like a woman who’s confident in her place in the world.

“So, the lighting,” I say, in what might be the least subtle subject change in the history of conversation. Luckily, Henry seems equally desperate for a new topic.

“It’s going to look great in here,” he says. “And your, uh, evil sister left some stuff for you to look at.”

“My evilhalfsister,” I correct him. I follow his gaze to the kitchen table, where there’s a note written in the neat, slanted writing that hasn’t changed over the years. If anything, it’s gotten even more precise.

Seeing my name,Kat—, written at the top of the page instantly takes me back to the dozen letters she sent. As part of the whole keeping-my-dad’s-deep-dark-secret thing, I hid the letters inside a shoebox, inside a Tupperware box that was covered with a bunch of old T-shirts under my bed. Throwing them in the trash was too big a risk; my mom might find them and ask questions I couldn’t answer about this girl from camp who kept sending me letters.

Looking back, I realize she was the one who got the mail every day, but at twelve, I wasn’t exactly a critical thinker. I just knew I needed to protect my family, and the only way to do that was to keep my mom in the dark.

Of course, now, I know she already knew, although I don’t know how or when she found out.

I pick up the paper and read Blake’s note:

Kat—

Here are a few color options for the stain on the wood floor (for the kitchen and the rest of the main level) and also for the cabinets.

I picked a few colors I thought would be nice—but if you don’t like them, you can find rows and rows of them at Lowe’s.

Let me know what you think. I’m going to start painting next week.

—Blake

The colors she picked aren’t awful, and suddenly I feel like the evil sister. I didn’t think she would stay true to her word, but she’s letting me make the call.

To someone like Blake, white is white is white. But I have an elevated understanding of the depths that define color, how there are warm whites and cool whites and crisp whites and even off-whites.

I pick up the stack of paint chips and study the colors. Vanilla Milkshake and Moonshine, White Dove and Paper White. Now I just have to decide which shade of beautiful to choose—this one decision will set the tone for all the others to come.

I’m creating not just the aesthetic for a room, but the backdrop for future memories—provided I can get my shit together and convince Rachel Worthington I’m the perfect influencer to represent her brand.

I clear a space on the kitchen table—the warm wood will make a perfect backdrop for the shades of white—and arrange the paint chips into the shape of a heart. To get the perfect shot, I need some height, so I pull out a chair and step up, holding my phone over the table.

Just when I have the heart perfectly positioned in the frame, my chair starts to wobble. Before I can decide whether to catch my balance or capture the shot, Henry is there, keeping the chair steady.

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and waits patiently as I take the picture from a few different angles and heights.

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