The wind pressed against him as he moved, head down, along the sidewalks and bike paths and sandy shoulders connecting the little towns that made up the island. Was this place even real? Would a wave come and wash it all away before sunrise? For one long stretch beside the water, on the island’s northeast side, each step forward felt like a feat. When the path turned into trees that blocked the whipping gusts of ocean air, the relief was so profound he momentarily felt as if he were floating.

Her house was surrounded by a low stone wall, partially hidden behind a stand of evergreens that towered over the power lines, their night-black needles swaying thickly overhead. Trevor could see no lights in the house, but the high, bright moon illuminated a gate, and a path. The salt in the air had made the skin on his face stiff. He was thirsty. He climbed the three stone steps to the front door and cupped his hands around the window cut into the top half. If anyone was inside, they were asleep. He tried the handle. Locked. Lightly, he rapped a knuckle against the glass.

“Hello,” he said quietly, though he sensed it was to no one but the house itself. He needed to sit down, take a minute, make a plan. He walked back down the steps and turned onto the grass, keeping close to the house as he walked along the front and down toward the water. What he found on the other side was spectacular. Wide tiers of stone patios extending left and right to a swimming pool and farther, down toward the ocean. Outdoor furniture neatly covered, barrel-sized planters, a fire pit, a brick pizza oven. He knew she was rich, but damn. Trevor followed the path to the top patio and the wall of French doors. He looked up at the second level of windows—the bedrooms, he presumed. Was she up there? Was anyone? Was this his Romeo moment? Of course not.

The furniture beneath an overhang was uncovered, so he sat down on the sofa and settled into the understanding that he was going to sleep here tonight. Close to the house so he might hear someone move around inside. Which way was he facing? Maybe he’d open his eyes into the sunrise. Maybe Claudia would bring him a cup of coffee.

His full bladder woke him just after eight a.m. Trevor jogged down to the water and relieved himself before his brain could tell him that getting caught, dick out, in a place like this, would be very bad. He peered in through a side door, seeing a kind of mudroom: slate floors, raincoats on hooks, boots in cubbies. He tried the handle and it opened.

“Claudia?”