“You haven’t figured it yet? Jake is whatever he needs to be at a given moment. If he doesn’t want to deal with boats, he gets seasick. If he needs to get somewhere quick, he’s the old man of the sea. Once an actor, always an actor.”

“Huh.”

“Likely Rousseau sent him uptown to hang with his high-rise friends for a while, see what he could learn.”

“Jake has high-rise friends?”

“Well, they think he’s a friend. With money and connections. One of his favorite roles. He’s very convincing.”

“You’ve seen him at it?”

“Now and then.” Daniel looked uneasy. “I feel like I’m blowing his cover.”

“And yours,” I said.

He laughed, but he didn’t deny it.

“Tell me about it someday. Can I take the dinghy?”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You finish with the books. I still have to clean out my bunk.”

I turned to go, but he held me back. “It’s going to be crazy over there.”

“I know. I’m used to den craziness.”

“This is different. Lizzy, please?”

The name, so new yet not at all, got my attention.

“Don’t get distracted, okay? Or sent off on some errand. Things are moving too fast and info isn’t always being shared. Get back here ASAP, you promise? No matter what.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I hugged him hard, hoping he’d get the message: not everyone will leave you behind.

As I stooped to untie the dinghy, Breakers called down to me. “While you’re over there, maybe you can give them a hand with your friend Jenn.”

I straightened. “What?”

“She’s barricaded herself in her bunk. Won’t pack out. Won’t let anyone help. Something about relatives coming to pick her up?” Breakers snorted. “As if.”

Exactly what I’d worried about.

“Ask Jake what he’s heard about the Stormies!” Daniel called as I threw myself into the dinghy.

I nodded and bent to my oars.

THIRTY-SEVEN

For once, my timing was right.

I monkeyed up the rope ladder to the front entry and snaked between the columns of outbound crates and stacked luggage lining the stair to the mudroom, just as Jake came up the ladder, in deep with Rousseau, both of them talking at once. The noise and bustle in made it hard to listen in without intruding. I made a big deal about filling my water bottle.

Jake looked peculiar, beyond his stitches and bruises from yesterday’s attack. Finally, I realized it was his clothing—not his usual baggy jeans and T-shirts, but sleek, pale, and tight. Uptown clothes. More Empire State than Unca Joe.

“How’d you explain that back-alley face to your penthouse pals?” Rousseau was asking.