So, no, Scott would never convince her that they’d both be better off if they leaned on each other less. But she had made a promise to Hope, and she needed to keep it. She’d wait a few days before checking in with her to plan a visit. Until then, Hope would be fine. Like Scott said, she was a survivor.

3
Saturday, June 12, 10:45 p.m.

Nearly seventeen hundred miles away, NYPD detective Ellie Hatcher felt the weight of a warm, bare arm wrapped across her chest. Her skin felt clammy. She couldn’t move. She was pinned against the bed.

A scream jarred her awake. It took her a few seconds to realize that it had come from her own throat. The arm moved, and a hand stroked her shoulder soothingly. “Sssh,” a voice whispered, “it’s just a dream.”

Ellie opened her eyes and blinked several times before she remembered where she was. She registered the faint sounds of the ceiling fan—click, click, click—and crickets outside the window. Frogs? Some sort of tiny creature.

It was so damn quiet. Too quiet. At home, she was used to a constant symphony of sirens, car horns, and garbage trucks on Third Avenue, Ellie’s version of white noise, allowing her to disappear until she reemerged into the world the next morning.

She had no idea whether she’d been muttering, sweating, or kicking, but somehow she had managed to awaken Max, who could sleep through anything. She rolled over to face him. This was their first trip beyond the tristate area together. Hell, it was her first real vacation since making detective with the NYPD five years earlier.

“Are you okay?” His voice was sleepy. Even though they had showered before dinner, he smelled like sun, salt water, and coconut.

“I’m fine.” She nestled her head in the crook of his arm and placed one hand across his stomach until his breath became deep and rhythmic. He was already snoozing again. The fan continued to click as Ellie alternated between blanket-off and blanket-on, trying to find the right temperature.

It had been Max’s idea to come to St. Barts. He thought she was kidding when she asked where it was. Ellie had been outside the United States exactly three times: once in high school, when she and two of her friends decided one Friday night that it would be fun to drive to Mexico; once two years before, when she’d flown to Toronto to interview a witness in a shooting connected to the Russian mafia; and once to London with the only other man she had ever tried to live with.

At least Max had chosen a warm place with beautiful white-sand beaches instead of a rainy version of New York City. The original plan had been to come in March, but Max’s trial schedule had veto power.