“No comment,” I bark as I push past her and walk toward the house. She doesn’t try to follow me or harass me for more information, but I can’t shake the eerie feeling of hearing her say my name. If she found me...Hugo could surely find me.

I never registered as an employee of Hazel’s. She always paid me cash, under the table.

There should be no formal records of me living or working with Hazel, so how did they find me?

Nausea floods my senses. The reading of the will is not for another month, if I even make it that long.

“Please leave me alone,” I stutter, turning my face away from the van. I don’t know if the cameraman behind the window is recording or taking pictures, but he already knows too much. If they could figure out where I was, then Hugo could easily find me. I should have changed my name. I should have gone farther.

Blood is drumming so loudly in my ear that I don’t register the motorcycle until the deafening roar pulls up beside me.

“Get on,” he barks.

I don’t hesitate, not even chancing a glance back at the news truck. Watching for the exhaust pipe like he told me last time, I jump on the bike and cling hopelessly to his back, pressing my cheek to the black leather of his jacket.

He takes off in a rush but not before shouting one last “fuck off” to Charlotte Whatever-her-name-was. Finally when we make a turn that takes us back down the long side of the island, I let out a loud sigh. I’m not safe, not by a long shot, but I feel safer against his body.

The ride is longer than I expected it to be. We’re nowhere near Hazel’s anymore. We’re back near the boardwalk and his shop but still in the residential area behind the commercial zone. At first, I think we’re going on a little pleasure cruise to calm my nerves, which it does, but then he pulls into the driveway of a house I don’t know. It’s a big house, a two-story Cape Cod, perched on a hill next to a row of similar-looking houses. The street isn’t as estately as Hazel’s street, but it has the charm of the beach-town suburbs. There are kids running in the front yard a few houses down. A couple walks their curly-haired dog just behind where Murph parks his bike. Behind the house, I see what looks like a garage big enough for a yacht.

“Where are we?” I ask, although I think I already know.

“I have to check on the house. I’ve barely been home all week.” He doesn’t look at me as he answers, knocking out the kickstand and pulling a set of keys out of his pocket.