“Father will fix up the island,” Eve said quickly. “They’re kids, Mark. They’re going to love living on a private island with their own cottages and—no bedtimes—no curfews—no rules.”
“Well, no rules except that they have to remain here, for their safety, and they must do a little weather tweaking when we need them to,” Stewart finished for her. “So, is that answer enough to your question, Son?”
Mark’s gaze grabbed and held Eve’s. She knew what he was searching for in her eyes. He wanted to see that she was still on his side and willing to stand up to Father with him, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t give him what he needed. Not when her freedom was so close.
“Everything is going to be okay, Mark. I promise,” Eve told him.
Mark blew out a long, sad breath and said, “For us, maybe. But for those eight kids and the rest of the world?” He shook his head and pushed past them, slamming the cottage door behind him.
When Eve started to go after him, Stewart snagged her wrist. “Let him go. You know he’s always been soft. You’re going to have to watch him, Eve.” Then Stewart’s hard gaze included Matthew and Luke. “You’re all going to have to watch him. Or he’ll spoil this for all of us—for all of you.”
“We understand, Father,” Luke said. “We’ll watch him.”
“Yeah, he won’t mess this up for us,” Matthew said.
“Eve?” Stewart turned to her.
“Father, you know I’ll always take care of Mark.”
“Yes, but taking care of him and being sure he doesn’t self-destruct and take all of us down with him are two very different things,” Stewart said.
“Like I told Mark, everything is going to be okay. Now, I’m going to do as you asked and go to him and be sure he isn’t self-destructing.” Eve began to walk past Stewart, but he didn’t release her wrist.
“I’ll walk a little with you, my Nubian princess.”
Eve looked into her father’s eyes and saw there his insatiable need. “Yes, Father,” she answered obediently, allowing him to lead her from the cottage and away from Luke and Matthew and Mark so that he could drain the crystal she had just conjured and get his fix.
Someday I will be free of Father, and if that means eight teenagers must take our places here—then so be it.
21
CHARLOTTE
Charlotte could barely contain her excitement. Today, in her Intro to Marine Ecology class, she was going to be able to get out on the Gulf for the first time since she’d arrived at the Texas A&M’s campus. She studied herself carefully—oh, so carefully—in the full-length mirror in her dorm room.
Her hair was good tied neatly back in a high ponytail and woven through the rear opening of her Wildfang cap that declared FEMINIST on the brim. Her makeup was perfect—not too much, but also enough to cover her imperfections and bring out her long, thick eyelashes. She was wearing a long-sleeved swim shirt over her sports bra. The fit was almost as flattering as the turquoise color that reflected her eyes so well.
The class had been told to wear swim shirts and swimsuit bottoms. They’d be on and in the water all day. But Charlotte couldn’t make herself wear a bikini bottom. All day. In front of strangers. So, she’d opted for one of the oversized swim shirts she always wore and a tasteful pair of pink boy shorts. Still, she studied herself—front, back, side. And had to stifle the urge to cut class.
“No, you will not cut class, especially a class that is held on the ocean!” Charlotte spoke sternly to herself in the mirror. Then she read aloud from the postcard Grandma Myrtie had sent her. Charlotte had taped it to her mirror so she would see it every single day. It was her grandma’s favorite quote by the timeless Eleanor Roosevelt:
“… the purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”
Charlotte kissed her fingertips and then pressed them to the postcard. “Thank you, Grandma Myrtie. That is exactly what I’m going to do.”
Her phone alarm bleeped, signaling she was out of time, and she grabbed her backpack and sunglasses and hurried from the private apartment her grandma had secured for her on campus. It was a fantastic luxury, especially as her apartment looked directly out on the Gulf. Charlotte was still trying to figure out how to show Grandma Myrtie her appreciation for her love and belief and support—financial and emotional—and she’d pretty much decided that she was going to have to discover a new species of marine life and insist it be called a Myrtie!
Charlotte giggled musically at the thought as she followed the directions in her syllabus. A half-hour walk down the beach would take her to a dock where her professor and a marine biologist from the Turtle Island Restoration Network would be waiting for their class to join them. Today’s mission—that Charlotte could hardly wait to embark upon—was to count, study, and document the remains of Kemp’s ridley turtle and loggerhead sea turtle nests. And, hopefully, to get a glimpse of some actual sea turtles while they were at it.
Charlotte took off her swim shoes and walked into the waterline, loving how the warm waves crashed against her calves and swirled sand around her toes. She squinted, staring out at the Gulf, and her happy expression shifted to a frown.
The waves were insane! Not that that bothered Charlotte. She adored the passionate, wild, untamed waves! She ached to be out there with them—free, without one single care. But most people weren’t like her about the ocean, or at least about heavy waves on the ocean.
Charlotte picked up her pace, almost jogging, until she got within sight of the dock, where she saw a triangular-shaped red flag snapping in the gusting wind.
“Well, shoot!” A red flag was a warning. It meant that the surf is high and the currents are dangerous—too dangerous to take a small boat out on.