The whole town felt like it was unraveling. Whispers carried across grocery store aisles, prayers murmured in church pews, and the name Abby Jackson hovered like smoke no one could clear. You couldn’t escape it — or the pit in your stomach that came from realizing your gun was missing.

By the time you made it to Margo’s house, your nerves were raw. You’d barely managed to knock before the door opened and there she was, cool as ever, standing in nothing but a bright red bikini. She looked like sin dressed for summer, a drink in hand, utterly untouched by the storm raging through town.

“I—I can’t find my gun,” you blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “And I don’t… I don’t remember anything from that night. At the lake house.”

Margo’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, her eyes glittered with interest, like a cat toying with prey. She set her glass down and sauntered closer, one brow arched.

“You don’t remember anything?” she asked softly, voice curling around you. Then she tilted her head, lips quirking. “But you remember this…”

Her hand slid around your wrist, tugging you through her bedroom, silk and perfume closing in around you. And before you could answer, her mouth was on yours — deliberate, heated, as if trying to etch the memory of your first kiss at the lake house back into you whether you wanted it or not.