TWENTY
Hope.
Cam’s grandparents own an amazing home on a secluded part of the beach. It’s a gorgeous, two story home. In the front, there is a huge wrap around porch with big white pillars supporting the roof above. There is a porch swing on the front porch that I can’t wait to swing in. I bet it’s beautiful out here at night. But the truly spectacular view is behind their house.
The entire back of the house is lined with floor to ceiling windows. There is another deck at the back. There is a pool back there with lots of palm trees. But beyond that, there is the ocean, which is just breathtaking.
“This house is amazing,” I tell Margret, Cam’s grandmother.
I've always wanted to live on the beach. Or at least in a beach town. I’ve lived in the suburbs of Atlanta my whole life and I want to experience life somewhere else, even if it is just for a short time.
“Yes, we love it here,” she says. “After everything that happened last year, we felt as if it were best to get away from Atlanta. I know our neighbors were happy that we left.”
“Why would your neighbors be happy?” I ask.
They are some of the nicest people I've ever met. The kind of neighbors that are quiet and don't cause drama—why would anybody want to be rid of them?
“My grandson… Cam and Giggi’s younger brother, did something terrible,” Margret says. “The neighbors hated us for it.”
“That seems dumb to me. I mean, whatever he did wasn't your fault,” I say.
She smiles at me, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. “I think when something bad happens, people need to blame somebody. We were just the easiest people to blame. And even the ones who didn't blame us pitied us. I could see it in their eyes. So we packed up and left. I don't regret it.”
“I'm sorry that happened to you guys,” I say.
“Thank you, dear,” she says. “You're a good person. I always knew you would be.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Before she can answer, Cam walks into the room.
“Nice view, huh?” he says, walking up between Margret and me.
“Very nice,” I say. “It's so beautiful here.”
“I'm going to go check on Giggi,” Margret says, and then walks from the room.
I turn to look at Cam, who is watching me.
“Your grandmother told me you have a younger brother,” I say.
“Had,” he says.
One single word.
But I know exactly what he means.
His little brother is dead.
“I'm sorry,” I say.
He shrugs his shoulders. “It's not your fault.”
“I'm not a stranger to loss,” I say. “I'm saying sorry because I hate that you've had to go through what you have. I don't know what I would've done if Scott had been at school that afternoon. I thank God every single day that he happened to be sick that day.”
“My brother wasn't a good person,” Cam says, looking out the window. “Nobody came to his funeral besides my family and the cops that were there to keep others away. There weren't happy words spoken about him. And I felt bitter the whole time… numb.”
“What did you brother do?” I ask.
Cam turns to look at me. “The world saw my little brother as a monster. And I can't blame them for thinking that. But I saw him as my brother. The same brother who I protected from my mother when she was drunk and wanted to use us as a punching bag. He's the brother who played video games with me. The brother I used to binge watch our favorite TV shows with. He wasn't a bad guy to me.”
“Of course not,” I say.
“You don't understand,” Cam says. “My brother was a monster. He did horrible, horrible things.”
“It doesn't matter,” I say. “He's your brother. It's okay to love him unconditionally.”
“Isla, my brother is Derek Miller.”
My ears start to ring and the room starts to spin.
“What?” I ask.
He says something else, but I can't hear him over the loud ringing. My heart is thumping hard and my stomach is in knots. I run towards the door, not even sure how my legs are working. As soon as my feet hit the sand, I fall down on my knees and vomit onto the ground.
It's then that I realize what Cam just said.
Derek Miller is his brother.
The same Derek Miller who killed all my friends and then turned the gun on himself.
It's then that things begin to click in my head… the familiar blue color of his eyes when we first met. The way he reacted when I talked about Derek Miller. The way his family was when they met me… they knew exactly who I was.
Isla McAdams.
The one survivor.
Friend of the shooter.
The girl who lived when other people in the group were more deserving.
“Isla.”
I can hear somebody saying my name, but it's muffled. The ringing sound is so loud that it's almost deafening. It's then that everything begins to fade away. And for a split second, all I feel is hope. Hope for a chance to make something beautiful out of something ugly.
And then there is nothing.