When a shy girl from Figure Eight suddenly gets whisked into a dangerous treasure hunt involving four pogues known for their knack for trouble, she finds herself navigating not only the troubled waters of adventure but also the complexities of frien...
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Sydney Lyon's woke to sirens. Their distant wail cut through the heavy morning silence bringing her back slowly to consciousness. For a long moment she lay still, watching pale gold filter through her bedroom curtains. Dust motes drifted lazily in the sunbeams, settling on to the surfboard propped up against her wall and the crooked photographs of her younger self, all ocean tossed hair and water grins hung up on the walls.
A steady dripping interrupted the calm—slow, rhythmic, and annoyingly persistent. Her ears perked up, the sound both distant and unnervingly close. Sydney pushed herself upright, rubbing her brown tired eyes with the back of her hand as she suddenly remembered the predictions.
Hurricane Agatha.
Agatha had barrelled towards the small island of Outer Banks last night, but everyone on Figure Eight seemed sure it wouldn't be a big deal, insisting it would be "just a little wind and rain" and not half as bad as any other storm they had experienced beforehand. Sydney let out a sigh, realizing how much those Kooks had underestimated the storm.
Sliding from the bed, she padded barefoot across the wooden floorboards and shut the window. The smell rushed in anyway-damp earth, sea salt, something faintly metallic filling her bedroom—a strangely calming aroma for the chaos the storm had just caused. She could see the backyard through the streaked glass, and it looked wrecked: branches scattered across the lawn, shingles from the roof peppering the ground, and one of the old oak trees toppled into the pool.
She should have known better to trust the Kooks.
Her gaze turned away from the window and to the empty dog bed. Panic flared immediately.
"Sunny?" she called.
She flew down the staircase, socks slipping against polished wood, her voice echoing the vacant mansion as she called repeatedly for the dog.
Once downstairs in the dining room, she found him—a golden retriever with wide, anxious eyes—curled up under the table. Relief swept through her as she crouched down and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Hey, boy," she whispered softly, pressing her cheek to his warm fur that smelled faintly of dust and fear. "It's okay. It's over now."
The house on the other hand was less forgiving than Sunny for not being prepared for a storm. A small patch of ceiling in the kitchen dripped steadily into the floorboards, each drop like a ticking clock that made her wince. Her father would have thrown a fit about the water damage, if he was here but he wasn't here—hadn't been here for weeks, actually. And now with the aftermath of a storm, the silence pressed heavier than ever.
Then came another sound pulling her from her lonely thoughts: a quavering voice carried on the breeze.
Sydney looked to the dog and gave him one last pat before standing up muttering under her breath, "Stay here," before crossing to the back door.
