Chapter 1

The backyard breathed like a living thing under the string lights. Tiny amber bulbs looped in lazy arcs above the pool, their reflection fracturing across the water in broken gold. Steel drums rolled low from hidden speakers, a slow, humid rhythm that matched the charcoal smoke curling up from the grill. Rum and lime hung thick in the air, undercut by grilled meat and chlorine. Lounge chairs ringed the glowing blue rectangle of the pool like offerings; women in sarongs and bright bikinis drifted between them and the bar, hips swaying just enough to draw eyes. Men in board shorts clustered near the ice buckets, beers sweating in their fists, voices rising and falling in easy laughter.

Gideon and Isadora had been throwing these Caribbean pool parties for years now—long enough that the neighborhood had come to expect them like clockwork, a summer ritual as reliable as the cicadas and the heat. The couple had quietly turned the backyard into the sprawl’s unofficial epicenter: the place where coworkers, neighbors, old college friends, and even the occasional waitress showed up, drinks in hand, ready to pretend the week hadn’t happened. It wasn’t just a party anymore; it was tradition, the kind people mentioned in passing conversations, the kind that made the Hales feel like the center of something larger than their own quiet house.

Gideon Hale moved through it all with the practiced ease of a man who owned every inch of the space. Early forties, lean from weekend runs and careful calories, dark hair still thick, smile calibrated—warm but never too eager. He carried a fresh bottle of dark rum in one hand, a stack of plastic cups in the other, topping off drinks without asking. “You good?” he’d say, pouring before they answered. “Can’t have anyone sober on a night like this.” They laughed, thanked him, called him the best host in the sprawl. He smiled back, teeth flashing white in the low light, while inside his head a different inventory ran silent and relentless.