Of course, if Dorothy had thought for a second that Zora had been there to rescue her, she’d been sorely mistaken. A moment after breaking into her room, Zora had shoved a gun in her face and produced a note that Dorothy seemed to have written herself coaxing Ash to this very spot, at midnight, so that she could . . .

Dorothy’s eyes drifted back to the blood on the water. So that she could what? she wondered.

Stab him? Kill him?

Dorothy felt the horror of it hit her like a punch. She knew in her heart that she would never do that. Even after Mac Murphy had put a bounty on Ash’s head, blaming him for Roman’s death, the only thing Dorothy had cared about was finding Ash and warning him. None of this made any sense.

Was it possible for a man to survive after losing so much blood? Or was she fooling herself, thinking there was any chance that Ash could still be alive?

The Jet Ski’s engine suddenly roared to life, breaking the stillness of the night. Zora brought them up to the side of Ash’s boat, and Dorothy’s heart lifted. Maybe they could work together after all. Maybe—

“Do I have to tell you what I’ll do to you if you try to run?” Zora asked, her voice a low growl.

Dorothy’s heart fell once more.

“You do not,” she said, and, gathering the damp edges of her cloak in her fists, she climbed from the Jet Ski to the small, rocking boat.

She heard a click behind her and knew, without turning, that Zora had a gun aimed at her head. Again. The back of her neck prickled.

You would do the same, if you were in her position, she reminded herself. Zora had every right to be cautious. For the last year, Dorothy had been working against her and the rest of the Chronology Protection Agency, trying to steal the secrets of time travel out from under their noses. It made sense that Zora didn’t trust her.

But it still hurt like hell.

Dorothy swallowed, shifting her attention back to the boat. Her throat was dry, and she could hardly hear anything over the steady beat of her heart at her temples. The boat rocked gently in the waves, and Dorothy softened her knees and leaned forward slightly, to keep from losing her balance. It was an automatic reflex, picked up after spending the last year in this watery city.

There was a spray of blood over the worn wood, a black scuff that could have come from a boot. It looked exactly as someone would expect it to look after two people had a brief confrontation and one of them had been stabbed and thrown overboard. Dorothy wasn’t a detective, but even she had to admit that this was all rather damning.