Kevin Bloom was supposed to be Emma’s idyllic, loving father who had died of cancer when she was two. I’d told Emma that Kevin had been a romantic Irish cabdriver/budding playwright whom I’d met when I first came to the city. A man with no family, of whom all trace had been lost in a fire a year later.

The fact, of course, was that there was no Kevin Bloom. I wish there were more times than not, believe me. I could have really used a romantic Irish playwright in my hectic life.

The truth was, there wasn’t even a Nina Bloom.

I made me up, too.

I had my reasons. They were good ones.

What I couldn’t tell Emma was that nearly two decades ago and a thousand miles to the south, I got into some trouble. The worst kind. The kind where forever after, you always make sure your phone number is unlisted and never ever, ever stop looking over your shoulder.

It started on spring break, of all things. In the spring of 1992 in Key West, Florida, I guess you could say a foolish girl went wild.

And stayed wild.

That foolish girl was me.

My name was Jeanine.

Book One. THE LAST SUNSET

Chapter 1

MARCH 12, 1992

Party till you drop, man!

Every time I think back to everything that happened, it’s that expression, that silly early-eighties cliché, that first comes to mind.

It was actually the first thing we heard when we arrived in Key West to start the last spring break of our college careers. As we were checking into our hotel, a very hairy and even drunker middle-aged man wearing goggles and an orange Speedo screamed, “Party till you drop, man!” as he ran, soaking wet, through the lobby.

From that hilariously random moment on, for the rest of our vacation it was our mantra, our boast, our dare to one another. My boyfriend at one point seriously suggested we should all get “Party till you drop, man!” tattoos.