He doesn’t. We venture toward the center of the island, swatting away bugs, and the rain grows heavier. Conor walks ahead of me, constantly looking back to make sure I haven’t slipped and cracked my skull on a jagged piece of rock. I roll my eyes every time, but when I trip over an exposed root, he catches me with a hand over my rib cage, and his eyebrow arches.

When we emerge from a grove of palms, I realize that we must have crossed the entire island, and are much closer to the water than I thought. Thick raindrops soak my hair and Tiny’s fur. He’s never been a huge fan of water, but he idles near an indentation in the rock wall, barking in its direction.

“It’s an entrance,” Conor says. “To a cave. An artificial cave. See how steps were carved in the stone?”

Tiny, who usually rolls down the stairs because he’s too lazy to walk, darts downward with the agility of a mountain goat, and we hurry after him. Despite the gloom of the day, the visibility inside the cave is surprisingly good, with light filtering in from an opening down below. “Is this some kind of…”

“Grotto,” Conor says once we reach the bottom. He points at the other end of the cave, where the stone arches. “Ships sail in that way, then dock over here.”

“And tourists climb up the steps to visit the island.” I nod. “You can see the coast from here. That’s Villa Fedra.”

Tiny barks again, this time at an alcove in the wall. Conor and I exchange a glance, and he says, for what better be the last damn time, “Stay behind me.”

He pets Tiny with a mumbled “Bad boy” that holds zero discipline and lots of affection. Then frowns as he leans forward for a better look. “Maya?”

“Yeah?”

He shakes his head. “Have to take it back.”

“Hmm?”

“What I said about Tiny. He’s actually a goddamn genius.”

Tiny puffs up with pride. “Why?”

“Because he wasn’t running. He led us here on purpose.”

Chapter 30

The other dog is a mutt, too, but much smaller, and so terrified of us, its little sable-coated body never stops trembling. It takes me and Conor very little time to pry it out of the gap in the wall, but the entire time Tiny stares at us, an impatient supervisor clearly distrustful of his staff.

“He’s a him, I think,” I tell Conor. “Aren’t you, handsome?”

That last part is a bald-faced lie—so obvious, Conor raises an amused eyebrow.

“Oh, shut up,” I say, biting back a smile. So maybe he’s not the platonic ideal of canine beauty. His underbite might interfere with mastication, and one of his eyes is larger than the other. He’s at once skeletal and stocky, too wide for his length and comically tiny-headed. His floppy red ears, though, are a spectacle. And: “Some of us value temperament over looks,” I tell Conor after the dog stops hiding behind Tiny, approaches me to cautiously sniff my hand, and then licks it.