Cora

It was scorching hot at the lake house. It was 3:00 PM in the middle of a July heatwave, and the ancient air conditioner had finally given up the ghost with a pathetic rattle two hours ago.

Now, the only sound was the rhythmic, annoying thwack-thwack-thwack of the ceiling fan as it moved the stagnant, ninety-degree air around the living room.

I was sprawled on the hardwood floor, my cheek pressed against it, trying to find a patch of wood that wasn’t already warm from my body. It wasn’t working.

“I’m actually going to die,” Sloane said suddenly.

She was lying about three feet away from me. Her blonde...