The weekend of the Little Five Hundred, an annual student bike race named after the Indy 500 auto race, was advertised as “the world’s greatest college weekend.” Bigger than homecoming, bigger than graduation, every night leading to the Saturday afternoon event would offer a full spectrum of debauchery—which meant a high demand for narcotics.

They made a plan and parted ways, Lakshmi to sleep and regroup, Caitlin to work out logistics with Mary. She made her way back to the guesthouse an hour past sunset. Tired from the crying and the swimming and the planning, she almost missed the slip of paper stuck in the screen door.

She hadn’t left the porch light on, so she picked up the folded half sheet of printer paper and went inside. Throwing her bag down, she flipped on a light and unfolded the note.

Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Don’t worry, Caitlin Bergman, you’re still safe—like a rose embower’d in its own green leaves.

Caitlin smiled, reached for her phone, and typed a text to Jerry Greenwood.

Thanks for the note. Who says chivalry is dead?

She hovered over “Send,” then stopped, deleting the response. Replying to the man at this time of night might lead to more than playing in the park, and Caitlin wanted to get up early.

Chapter 36

CHAPTER

36

THE NEXT DAY, Caitlin watched Lakshmi squeeze a massive black rental pickup into one of the diner’s tiny parking spaces and hop out.

“Did you get the stuff?” she asked when Lakshmi emerged.

She nodded. “Easels and everything. Are they here?”

Caitlin pointed to a green Honda sedan at the opposite end of the parking lot. “Here comes Lubbers.”

Mary walked over. “Lovely day for a stakeout.”

Caitlin didn’t realize she’d instigated a hug until her hands closed around her friend. “A boy left me a note.”

Mary patted her back, let go. “Like a love note? Let’s see.”

Caitlin slipped her the paper.

“Wow,” Mary said. “Your boy Greenwood’s got some penmanship. Weird imagery, though. What the hell does embower’d mean?”

“I don’t think it’s a real word—”

The deafening rumble of a motorcycle interrupted. Behind the wide grips of a Harley, Aaron Gaffney could have passed for an extra in Easy Rider. He wore a fringed suede jacket and a white helmet with white stars in a fat blue stripe down the middle, red pinstripes on both sides. He leered at them under raised eyebrows. “Ladies.”

Caitlin laughed. “Is that an Evel Knievel helmet?”

He revved his throttle, gave them a metallic, throaty growl. “It gets Mary hot. Right, sexy?”

Mary bounced over to him. “You bet, random biker I just met.”

She kissed him like they hadn’t seen each other in years, then came up for air. “What’s the plan?”