what now? | outerbanks

• ninety-six •

Rafe

I've been sitting on the porch for an hour now, staring out at the yard like something interesting might happen. Strokes of heat lightning dance in the sky, reminding me of all the cracks I've been trying to smooth over.
    I couldn't sleep. My mind won't shut up. Sofia's inside, curled up in bed, peaceful in a way I can never seem to get. I should be lying next to her, breathing in sync, but instead I'm out here with my head buzzing.
Then, headlights sweep across the trees.
I straighten instantly, eyes narrowing as a familiar car rolls past Tanneyhill's drive. I know that car—classic, with surf shop stickers scattered over the back window.
"Sarah?" I mutter to myself, already pulling out my phone. The fluorescent screen blinds me for a second.
I dial before I can think better of it.
"Hello?" Her voice comes through low and cautious.
"Why are you out this late?" I cut straight in, no preamble.
There's a pause. Too long. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb," I say, sharper than I mean to. "I just saw your car pass the house. It's almost two in the morning."
She exhales fast, like she's scrambling for something believable. "I—uh, couldn't sleep. Just driving. Needed to clear my head."
Bullshit. My jaw tightens. "Sarah, c'mon. I know you better than that. Where are you actually going?"
Another pause. Longer this time. I can almost hear her heart beating through the line.
Finally, her voice cracks softly. "I'm going to the boardwalk."
That makes me sit all the way forward. "The what?"
"They went," she says quickly, as if she doesn't rush it out she'll choke. "John B. and the Pogues. They got this...note—a tip. Something about Miller, they think. They didn't want me there, but—" she cuts herself off, breath shaky. "I can't just sit here and do nothing. Not again."
I scrub a hand over my face, pressing hard against my eyes like it'll help me make sense of this. "Sarah, that sounds dangerous as hell. And you're—you're pregnant. You shouldn't be going anywhere near it."
"I know," she says instantly. Her voice isn't defensive, just raw. "I know it's dangerous, but I have to. I can't explain it. I just...have to."
Her words sit heavy. I close my eyes for a second, the weight of it twisting in my chest. She sounds so sure, but she also sounds lonely as hell.
"Sarah..." I start, but I stop myself. I want to tell her to turn the car around. To go home. But I can already tell she won't. She's stubborn like me. Cameron stubborn. Once it's in her head, it's already done.
So I switch tracks. "At least tell me you're not going in blind."
Another silence.
"Sarah," I push, low and firm.
"They've got it covered," she finally admits. "Pope had a plan. JJ brought—" She swallows, like maybe she wasn't supposed to say that part. "Look, I'm not stupid. I'm not going to charge in like some action hero. I just need to be there."
I lean back hard in the chair, heart pounding. Every instinct in me is screaming that this is going to blow up.
"Fine," I mutter finally. "But you're not going alone."
"What?"
"I'll meet you there."
"Rafe—"
"Save your breath, Sarah. You're already halfway. You're not turning back, right?"
She sighs because she knows I'm right.
"Exactly," I say, standing now, already tugging on sneakers. "So you'll just have to deal with me."
Inside, the house creaks softly. I slip in through the back, pausing at the bedroom door. Sofia's still asleep, hair spilling across the pillow. My chest tightens a little at the sight.
I crouch and press a kiss to her forehead. I whisper so she won't hear and wake up. "Be back soon, mi amor."
Keys in hand, I'm out the door again before I can talk myself down.
If Sarah thinks she's running headfirst into danger alone, she's dead wrong.

JJ

Everything about the boardwalk feels wrong this late. It feels like some alternate universe, like the Earth has tilted slightly off its axis. At the peak of a summer day, it's full—people at every vendor, dripping ice cream cones, live musicians singing into the breeze. Not right now. It's empty and hollow, every neon sign sputtering like it's on its last leg. The carousel's frozen in the distance, a horse's painted mouth caught mid-scream, and the whole place feels like it's waiting for something to go wrong.
We sit in the Twinkie for a solid minute after pulling up. No one moves—no one talks. The only sound is the ocean below and the low hum of the engine before John B. kills it. My fingers drum against my thigh at too fast a beat, the energy climbing under my skin like it always does before shit goes sideways.
Nobody wants to be the first to say it, but the air's thick with it. This is bad.
"Nothing," Pope mutters finally, squinting out the windshield. His voice is steady, but his knee is bouncing a mile a minute. Dead giveaway.
"Maybe it was a fake tip," Kie whispers. She's hugging herself, staring out the window, like if she looks hard enough, she'll catch whatever's waiting. Her voice is smaller than usual, and it makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I shake my head. "Nah. Something's coming."
Silence stretches. I can hear Cleo shift in the back, restless, probably itching to move. "Then let's move," she mutters. "Sitting here makes us targets."
She's right. We're just sitting ducks here. John B. finally nods, and that's the only signal we need.
We pile out quietly, shoes hitting pavement with soft thuds. The night air smells like salt and rust, sharp in my nose. The boardwalk stretches out in front of us, dark and endless, the ocean crashing low underneath like it's trying to warn us off. Every creak of wood sounds like a gunshot.
We move slowly toward the main stretch, always staying in the safety of the shadows. My heart's in my throat, pounding loud enough I'm sure everyone else can hear.
Then—movement.
Luke steps out first.
My stomach lurches just at the sight of him.
He looks even worse than last time—skin stretched too tight over his bones, eyes darting wildly like a ghost might jump out at him from any corner. His shirt's stained, hair stringy, grin sharp like broken glass. He looks like death that hasn't caught up to itself yet.
For a split second, I'm ten years old again. I'm barefoot on the porch while he screams at me for dropping his beer. I can see it—him hurling the bottle across the yard, glass exploding like fireworks against the tree. The sound had stuck in my bones, sharp and violent. Then he turned that look on me—the one that said, You're nothing. You're mine to break.
I can still feel the ache in my ribs from bracing too hard, like maybe if I held myself tight enough, it wouldn't hurt as much. My body remembers before my brain does.
He's always been like this. Crooked. Empty. Dangerous.
I shake it off, forcing myself into the now.
"Shit," I hiss under my breath. We all duck fast, crouching behind a stack of barrels. Close enough to see, far enough to pray we're not seen.
Luke's voice carries, jagged and raw. "Didn't think you'd show."
He's talking to someone. Who?
Kie's lips move closer to my ear. "Who is he talking to?"
We all look around in confusion.
Then Rose steps out.
Even in the dim light, she's dressed like she always is—blazer sharp, heels clicking—but she doesn't look polished. Her skin's pale, eyes sunken, movements jerky like she's running on fumes. She's trying to look untouchable, but we can all see that her edges are cracked.
"You don't know anything about me," she says, chin tilted. Her voice is sharp but wavers, like she's barely holding the line.
Luke barks a laugh, ugly and bitter. "I know that you're a lying bitch."
"Careful," she hisses.
"Oh, don't act like you didn't drag me into this. You wanted him gone as much as I did. You called the shot. You hired the guy. And then what? He botches it, it's sloppy, and you just disappear? Left me holding the bag like I'm your little errand boy?" His voice cracks, spitting venom, louder with every word. Every word is another blow, perfectly weaving into the suspicions we've been calculating for weeks.
Rose's face doesn't move, but her shoulders stiffen. "You're pathetic. You think anyone's going to believe you over me? Try to turn me in, Luke. Go ahead. I'm a Cameron."
Behind the barrels, Pope's breathing fast, muttering, "Holy shit," under his breath.
I glance at John B. His jaw's locked tight, eyes dark. He looks two seconds away from bolting out there.
Luke snarls. "You think that name's still worth anything? You think it's gonna save you?"
Rose's hand dips toward her purse.
And before I can think, Luke's moving too—pulling a gun, his grin spreading wild.
My body's ahead of me. I'm on my feet, gun out, weight hot and steady in my hand.
"Drop it!" I yell. My voice cracks across the boardwalk, sharp, louder than I meant it.
Luke freezes, eyes widening for a second before that manic grin splits wider. He swings the barrel toward me, slow and deliberate. "Well, well. Didn't think you were invited to the party."
"Guess you thought wrong," I bite back, aiming steady. My finger twitches against the trigger, but I keep it in check. Rule's the rule. Only pull if someone else does first.
His laugh rattles through the dark. "Cute toy you've got there, son. You gonna pull it? Huh? You gonna be the hero?"
Before I can even think of a comeback, John B. bursts out from cover, voice raw. "Luke!"
The scene splinters. Rose's hand is inside her purse—a glint of metal. Luke's gun jerks between me and John B., indecisive.
"Everybody chill!" Kie's voice cuts through, frantic. She's half out of hiding, hands up. "This doesn't have to go down like this!"
"Please," Cleo adds, sharper, stepping closer. "Y'all are eating yourselves alive. You can't run forever."
"Shut up!" Luke roars, spit flying. His gun wavers, his whole body shaking like he's about to blow apart.
Rose's lips curl, cruel. "No one believes a drunk. No one ever has. You're a failure, Luke. You couldn't even kill clean."
Something snaps in him at that. I can see it in his eyes—something mean and bottomless rising to the surface.
And then it happens too fast.
A shot splits the night—loud, raw. Rose stumbles back, crumpling, clutching her shoulder. A second gunshot cracks, my ears ringing with it.
"Shit!" I fire without thinking—too fast, too panicked. The bullet scrapes Luke's arm, enough to make him stumble.
He howls, wild eyes flashing to me, then to the blood streaking his sleeve.
And then he bolts, footsteps slamming against the wooden planks, fading toward the beach.
My breath is heaving. My hands are shaking so hard I almost drop the gun.
I'm torn. Do I follow him? Do I stay and help?
My brain is moving at lightning speed, but it still can't ignore the sputtering sounds to my right.
Rose is on the ground, groaning, her purse tipped over with lipstick and a pistol half-spilled onto the boards.
And then a sharp, pained gasp comes from the darkness behind us.