My sister announced in the family group chat that I was officially banned from the reunion—and made it clear no one was to tell me where it would be. I didn’t argue. I didn’t reply. I simply opened the location pin… and laughed so hard I had to cover my mouth.

“Absolutely, Ms. Morales. I’m so sorry. We’re calling right now. Please stay in your vehicle if you feel unsafe.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just send them.”

I hang up.

Then, very carefully, I place the phone back in the cup holder.

For a second, everything is still.

The rental car.

The hot air.

The music drifting out from the open deck doors.

The ocean beyond the dunes, endless and indifferent and silver in the late-day light.

Then I open the car door and step out.

The heat hits me like a hand. But beneath it, there is something else too—a clean, powerful steadiness moving through my body. Not rage. Not hysteria. Something far more effective.

I straighten my shoulders. Pick up the folder. Start walking.

The crushed shells in the driveway crunch under my shoes, and that sound—small, dry, unmistakable—carries farther than I expect. Kyle is the first to notice me. He’s standing on the deck with a beer in hand, squinting into the sun like the world has produced an inconvenient extra.

At first he looks confused.

Then his eyes widen.

“Skyla?”

The music cuts off.

Faces appear in windows.

Bridget rushes to the sliding glass door, phone still in hand.