But there was no way I’d say that out loud.
“The committee does the bulk of the organizing work,” Tom continued. “I just need someone to be a liaison between them and our central office. Someone who can do that full time, since the committee’s all volunteers. And Hetty says you’d be perfect for the job.”
I exhaled, wondering how to say no without sounding like the world’s biggest dick.
Thanks for the offer, but I’d actually prefer the sea turtles to go extinct. I have personal trauma, you see…
“Look, Tom. I don’t know what Hetty’s told you—” I began, but he cut me off.
“If you’re trying to tell me you’re not interested in the job, Hetty warned me about that, too.” Tom laughed. “But she also told me not to be offended if you didn’t even show up to the meeting, and that you’re an ornery son-of-a-gun, so as far as I’m concerned, you’ve already exceeded expectations.”
I felt a flush creep up my neck and looked down, busying myself with straightening Roxie’s collar, as Tom continued.
“I know I’m pitching to a tough crowd here, but I’ve got to give it a shot, right? Here’s the deal. Your McIntyre Beach has never been officially protected because up until now, it hasn’t needed it. Adair did an excellent job of taking care of it.”
I almost flinched at the words, ‘your McIntyre Beach.’ I’d abandoned any claim to it when I left Summersea. But something contracted in my chest all the same.
“I’m not sure they took care of it so much as they just left it alone.” I tried to keep my voice disinterested.
“You know as well as I do that leaving something alone is the best thing humans can do for the land, sometimes,” Tom said. “And honestly, I think Adair might have kept doing that, if the election had gone the other way. But now—”
“Election? What election?”
“The special election for the at-large city council seat,” Tom replied, as though that were something everyone knew about. “A few months ago?”
I tried to remember if Em or Deacon had mentioned the election in any of our recent phone calls. Admittedly, I might have tuned it out even if they had. Island politics weren’t high on my list of interests these days.
I shrugged, and Tom shook his head.
“Well, there was an election, as I said, and whoever won was likely to be the swing vote on whether or not to sell the land. Unfortunately, the candidate we were supporting lost, and Nash has been doing everything in his power since winning to swing public opinion around to the pro-development side.”
“Wait a second.” I flattened my palm on the table. “Nash as in Bill Nash?”
Tom shook his head. “No, from what I understand, the elder Mr. Nash has largely retired from politics. It’s his son who won the seat, guy by the name of—”
“Scott Nash.” The name was bitter on my tongue. “Scott fucking Nash.”
“That’s the one.” Tom raised an eyebrow. “I take it you know him?”
“You could say that.”
I had no doubt now that my brothers hadn’t mentioned the election to me. There was no way I would have forgotten news that involved Scott Nash.
I hadn’t spoken to him in ten years, but I didn’t imagine time had improved him much. Scott had been a bully, an arrogant, entitled asshole, the entire time I’d known him—and I’d known him since we were five.
He came from old money, one of those families that had been on Summersea for generations. His father, and even grandfather, had always been in some public office, and Scott had never been shy about throwing his weight around.
He’d terrorized kids in high school. Never overtly, of course. Never where any teachers could see. Most of the time, he had his friends do his dirty work for him. But it was Scott pulling the strings, from the top of a social pecking order he’d orchestrated for the pure pleasure of seeing other people crushed on the bottom.
I couldn’t stand the creep.
“How the hell did he convince people to vote for him?” I wondered out loud.
Scott’s father and grandfather had at least cloaked their venom beneath a veneer of civility. The Scott I knew had never bothered with that. Had he learned some tricks from the family playbook? Or had he just thrown enough money around that nobody cared?
“A little bit of both,” Tom said, and I blinked. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. “Did a very convincing job of selling himself as a family man, trying to support the island’s economy for long-term residents.”
“The only things Scott Nash wants to support are his own interests,” I muttered. “If he wants to develop the beach into condos, you can bet it’s because he’s getting something out of it.”
“I agree.”
Tom’s words were so matter-of-fact that they pulled me up short.
“You do?”
“Did Hetty not tell you the rest of what’s going on here?”
“Evidently not.”
“To put it simply, graft. I’m pretty sure that Lyles & Blackstone is liberally greasing any palms they think will help the council’s decision go their way. And I’m positive Scott Nash is part of that scheme. Unfortunately, we don’t have any proof.” Tom’s voice dripped with disgust. “It’s the same thing with the vandalism. It started right after Nash got elected, but so far we haven’t had the time or resources to—”
“Vandalism?” I stared at Tom. “What kind of vandalism?”
“Anything you can think of.” He waved a hand in the air in frustration. “Trash strewn across the beach. Oil dumped on the sand. I’m pretty sure someone’s putting chemicals in the river. The property owners next to the beach say they’ve sustained damages, too—cuts to their electric lines, chemicals poured into their water supply.”
“Shit.” That wasn’t just wrong, that was dangerous. “Why would anyone do that?”
“Retaliation,” Tom said grimly. “And to make the land less valuable, less attractive to wildlife. It’s one of the reasons I’m desperate to get someone out here before nesting season starts in earnest. Loggerheads, greens, leatherbacks—they’re all protected species, so their nesting sites should be protected as well—but only if we can prove they’re actually using the beach for that purpose. If someone were to destroy the nests, dig them up before the eggs could hatch—”
“Fuck.” Vandalism for retaliation, to lower property values, was bad enough. But harming an endangered species purely for monetary gain was despicable.
And it was something I had no trouble imagining Scott Nash doing.
Tom nodded. “That pretty much sums it up. The citizens’ action committee does what it can. They organize beach clean-ups, school trips, door-to-door community engagement. But we need someone who can be here every day—and night, too—to keep an eye on things. Report on nesting sites and numbers. Someone who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty, to be my boots on the ground for the next couple months.” He gave me a frank look. “Does that sound like you?”
Something pulsed inside my chest. I didn’t like it. It felt like my heart—a muscle that hadn’t gotten much use lately—testing its strength. Pushing out against my ribcage.