Max and April, exhausted from their long day, made their way back to her cottage as soon as the crowds cleared. She considered remaining behind to thank Edna, but the woman was speaking to Ruth and Talley, who soon left for their cottage. As Edna gathered the folding chairs, her face was drawn with fatigue, and Carlotta wondered if Edna ever stopped moving. Maybe she, too, feared the demons lurking in stillness.

Carlotta left Edna to her task and walked back to her cottage. It was past midnight, and the lack of sleep last night was weighing on her now. She was more than ready to have a drink and go to bed.

High heels dangling from her fingers, she moved out of the light toward the shadows running between the bungalows and her cottage. As she walked, she sensed someone was following her, and twice she stopped, looked back, but didn’t see anyone.

As she reached the cottage stairs, a man stepped out of the shadows. It was Peter Manchester. He planted his feet in the sand, swayed as a captain on a rocking ship might. He was drunk.

“Carlotta,” he said. “Sounds like a made-up name to me.”

“Go back to the hotel, Mr. Manchester,” she ordered. “It’s not safe to be out at night.”

He glared up toward the darkened sunporch of her cottage, evidently searching for Max and April. Seeing no one, he said, “I know my way around. Not my first rodeo.”

She thought about Max and April sleeping in the cottage. If she cried out for help, Max wouldn’t hesitate to fight Manchester, and, based on experience, Max would end up in jail.

He moved closer, his fingers curling into fists.

She gripped the porch railing. “Go back to your room. Your wife.”

He took a step closer. “I don’t appreciate what you told my wife.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lying, presenting a bold facade, and pretending were skills she’d long ago mastered.

“You told her to leave me.” He sounded reasonable, dangerous. “She’s my wife, and what happens in my marriage is none of your business.”

“Your troubles fell at my feet. I didn’t go looking for them.”

An appearance from Henry would have been nice, but knights only inhabited fairy tales. A girl needed to make her own way. That explained the pair of brass knuckles in her purse, but her bag was on the cottage’s dining table, the weapon swimming on the bottom with lipsticks, tissues, and coins. She gripped a high heel in each hand.

He stepped closer. “Stay away from her.”

“I’m tired, Mr. Manchester, and I don’t have time for this. Leave.”

“This isn’t your house. You’re little better than a squatter. A pretender. Like my wife.”