Kathy Reichs: Code

“That’s not how it works.” I suppressed a sigh. “To get LIRI back on its feet, Kit has a thousand details to square away. He’s chairing board meetings, managing the expansion, all while still overseeing day-to-day operations. Plus, he has responsibilities to the trust. It’s a huge job right now.”

“He should delegate.” Whitney’s voice carried the conviction of someone with no idea what she’s talking about. “Be more proactive.”

“He can’t.” This time, the sigh escaped. “Kit will be very busy until LIRI is finally straightened out. That’s going to be months, not weeks.”

Kit had talked with me about this before accepting the post. At length. I’d given my full approval—Kit becoming LIRI’s director meant no one had to move. That my friends’ parents’ jobs were safe, too. To keep everyone in Charleston, I’d have agreed to much worse than an overly busy father. Anything to preserve my pack.

Apparently Kit had failed to have the same conversation with Whitney.

“He needs to spend more time with his family,” she said firmly.

That’s me, not you .

“Whatever.” Something else had snagged my attention.

Throw pillows littered the couch on which Whitney lounged with her half-eaten peach. Lime green ones, with swirling pink embroidery.

New. Frilly. Definitely not a Kit purchase.

I scanned the room, noted other troubling developments.

There, on the bookshelf: a black-and-white porcelain vase. And on the mantel: the picture of Kit’s bowling team had been replaced by a framed shot of Kit and Whitney on the beach, wearing identical blue sweaters.

Other minor changes dotted the living room. A small ficus. Ceramic bookends. A wicker magazine caddy.

What the hell?

Kit and I share a townhouse on Morris, a four-square-mile island forming the south half of the entrance to Charleston Harbor. It’s a skinny, four-story home that goes up more than out. On the ground floor is an office and single-car garage. Our kitchen, dining, and sitting areas make up the second level, while floor three consists of sleeping quarters. Upon my arrival Kit moved into the one in back, giving me the larger front bedroom overlooking the ocean.

Our top floor is Kit’s man cave—an impressive media center that opens onto a spacious outdoor roof deck with a stunning view of the Atlantic. Every scrap of furniture was purchased from the good folks at Pottery Barn or IKEA. All in all, it’s nice, so long as you can handle all the stairs.

Our entire neighborhood consists of ten identical units built inside a 430-foot concrete structure formerly known as Fort Wagner—a remnant of the island’s days as a Civil War outpost. The community is so small that even most locals think Morris is uninhabited. Save for us, it is.

No other modern structures exist. There’s only one road—an unpaved strip of asphalt winding south through the dunes before crossing to Folly Island. Our sole lifeline to civilization.

The Loggerhead Trust had recently purchased the whole landmass, and leased the units to scientists working on Loggerhead. The Stolowitskis occupied one, as did the Blues and the Devers family, making my crew some of the planet’s most isolated teenagers.

The remoteness on Morris keeps visitors to a minimum. Yet here was Whitney, loafing on my sofa, making herself at home.

And practicing interior design.

I felt a hot flash of anger. The peroxide queen had overstepped—she had no right to redecorate my home without asking. She didn’t live there. Wasn’t my mother.

Whoa. There it was. As the emotional wave struck, I fought back tears.

Backstory. I’d come to live with Kit nine months earlier, after a drunk driver killed Mom. The pain of her loss still lingered just below the surface. Most of the time. Until some trigger caught me off guard.

Like unauthorized throw pillows on my couch.

I first met Kit a week after the accident. We got off to a rocky start, but lately had managed to find some common ground. That is, when I wasn’t busy getting shot at, or being arrested.

Kit once said I terrified him. He meant it in a good way. I think. Pretty sure.

Though light-years from a normal father-daughter relationship, we weren’t total strangers anymore. Progress. Baby steps.

As if I know what a normal father-daughter balance is, anyway.

But one thing became clear straight off. On the topic of Whitney, we did not agree.

I found the woman vapid, tactless, nosy, and overbearing. To Kit she was pure enchantment. Go figure. Bottom line, I had to endure her presence.

So far, I’d mostly succeeded. Barely. But here she went again.

Talk to Kit later. No point arguing now .

Movement in my periphery distracted me. Coop, scenting food, had slunk to the edge of the coffee table.

Whitney noticed at the same time. “Back! Back!” Swatting downward with a cloth napkin. “Get away, you mongrel!”

Whitney smacked Coop’s snout while simultaneously pressing herself deeper into the couch. Coop fixed her with an unblinking ice-blue stare, gray-brown fur bristling along his spine.

“Tory!” Whitney squealed. “He’s going to attack!”

“Maybe.” I walked into the kitchen and snagged a Diet Coke from the fridge. “Try to protect your throat.”

“Tory!!!”

“Oh, relax.” Though enjoying Whitney’s discomfort, I knew Kit wouldn’t share my amusement. “Coop, heel!”

The wolfdog trotted to my side and sat. I couldn’t prove it, but I swear he looked pleased with himself.

Whitney straightened her clothes, rolled her eyes skyward seeking patience, then rose and walked into the dining room.

“It’s dinnertime.” Placing flatware on the table. “I brought catfish po’boys, Cajun style. Black-eyed peas on the side.”

I’ll give Whitney one thing—she knows good food. I could usually tolerate her company if bribed with Lowcountry deliciousness.

I’d nearly finished my po’boy when she blew it again.

“I spoke to the Women’s Committee today.” Daintily wiping glossy red lipstick from her teeth. “It’s just not practical to return you to next year’s cohort. The invitations have been printed, and an official roster has gone to the paper. You’ll be making your debut this season after all.”

My head dropped. “What? I’m only fourteen! I’ll be the youngest deb by almost two years!”

Despite my fervent wishes to the contrary, I was being forced to take part in the grand Southern tradition of a debutante ball. Whitney’s idea, though Kit had thrown in his full support. Some nonsense about me needing “more refinement” and extra “girl time.” Like it was my fault no teenage XX-chromosomes lived on Morris Island.

I’d been attending cotillion classes for the past six months, learning massively important skills such as formal dance, standing up straight, the proper use of silverware, and the etiquette of hosting a tea party. I hated all the pretension, but there was no escape. Whitney was determined to mold me into a proper young lady.

Okay, it wasn’t all bad. I’d made a few friends, and was getting more comfortable around Bolton Prep’s ruling elite. Dressing up was kind of fun. Plus, the organization had a charitable focus, and we spent lots of time doing good works in the community.

But, by age, I should’ve been a junior debutante, with my debut taking place the following season.

“You’re a bit early to the party, I admit, but it’s not like you’re setting a record.” Her Southern drawl became aggrieved. “I pulled a lot of strings to advance you when we thought you’d have to move away from Charleston. It’s simply too much to untie that bow now.”