Exposure Read Online Free PDF Page A

the only building for miles.
    Kit had recently dubbed our neighborhood Exile Acres. The name stuck.
    “Later, peeps.” Hi fumbled for keys as he climbed to his front door. “I’m gonna watch Battleship at nine if you guys wanna live chat. Fair warning though—it looks absolutely terrible. Like, shockingly, horrifically bad.” With that, he disappeared inside.
    “Bye.” I didn’t move.
    A gentle breeze swept off the Atlantic, carrying the bitter tang of sea salt and stirring the azaleas Mrs. Stolowitski had planted along the front walkway. Out over the dunes, fireflies bobbed and winked like floating candles, as a legion of crickets began their nightly serenade.
    On Morris, you could close your eyes and pretend the civilized world didn’t exist.
    So peaceful. Like a land out of time.
    Coop nudged my leg. I reached down and absently stroked his back.
    I can’t stand out here forever. Or can I?
    “That bad, huh?” Shelton had paused to watch me from his stoop. “I thought ya’ll worked things out?”
    “It’s horrible,” I grumbled. “I can stand Whitney in small doses, but suddenly I’ve got a lifetime supply. The hits never stop.”
    “Good luck with that.” Shelton waved once, and was gone.
    More seconds ticked by.
    Coop yipped. Danced a circle. He took a few steps toward the dock, turned, and barked twice.
    “I hear ya, dog breath.” Shaking my head. “But we’re already late. Hiding will only make it worse.”
    With a piteous sigh, I trudged up to the front door.
    Slipping inside, I climbed the three steps to the main level. Before me stretched our living room, dining room, kitchen and breakfast nook, all lined up in a row. To my left, a narrow staircase descended to Kit’s tiny home office and a single-car garage.
    Up one flight were two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Thank God.
    The top floor, once Kit’s awesome man cave, had recently been transformed into a formal sitting room. Don’t get me started. Double doors opened onto a spacious roof deck with a spectacular ocean view.
    Nice digs, if you can handle all the stairs.
    Though I barely recognized the place anymore.
    Our furniture used to be strictly Ikea. Simple, durable catalog gear to make any yuppie proud. Those days were over.
    Delicate antiques now dominated the common areas. Gilded mahogany side tables. Lacquered chests and brazilwood bureaus. A tassel-trimmed silk ottoman. Pointy, upholstered chairs.
    At times, I wasn’t sure where I should sit, or what I could touch.
    The fancy pieces looked so . . . uncomfortable. Breakable. The bizarrely asymmetrical coffee table seemed destined to collapse at any moment. A pair of living room lamps resembled medieval torture devices.
    Worst of all, I’d been evicted from the bedroom facing the ocean. It was the larger chamber of the two—okay, fine, it was the master—but I’d been its sole tenant since joining Kit on Morris. It was mine.
    No longer. As Kit explained, the bigger bedroom was better suited to handle a double occupancy. And, with the back room all to myself, I’d still have the most space out of anyone.
    Blah blah blah.
    I’d been unceremoniously bumped to Kit’s smaller, rear-facing cell. Thanks so much.
    Why all the changes?
    The reason was sashaying around my kitchen at that very moment.
    Whitney Blanche DuBois. My father’s ditzy gal-pal.
    The blond bombshell had become a permanent resident at Casa de Kit.
    My own private nightmare.
    Hurricane Katelyn had shown less mercy to Whitney’s property than to ours. A massive oak had reorganized her kitchen, after crashing through the two stories above it. Pouring rain and gale-force winds had done the rest.
    Homeless, Whitney had moved in with us while her place underwent repairs.
    Five months later, she showed no signs of ever leaving.
    “Tory, darling!” Whitney cooed in her sugary Southern drawl. “I thought we’d discussed being home before sunset. It’s not safe for a girl to wander alone after