AT THE PARKING lot, Claire is waiting for me, sitting on the tailgate of a beat-up Toyota Tacoma. She waves and smiles as I pull up, and I feel a tingling inside. She’s wearing a pair of hiking shorts and a tank top over a sports bra, a very practical outfit that is still sexy as hell, showing off her long legs and tanned, toned arms.

The place is busier this morning, with about a dozen cars in the parking lot and people going in and out of the general store. There are a handful of passengers loading into the water taxi. I wonder if the news coverage has caused the sudden influx of visitors. Maybe people want to see where the so-called heroism occurred.

The same kid is piloting the taxi today, and when he spots me, he yells, “Hey, man, you want a ride? It’s on the house today!”

I explain to Claire that the taxi can bypass four miles of the hike.

“Nah,” she says, “we came here to hike, didn’t we?”

My heart warms at her words. It’s obvious she’s better suited for me than Hannah ever would be.

I tell the pilot that we’ll pass, and he says that we can always get a ride on the way back.

“There’s a telephone at the dock at the other end,” he says. “The number is taped to the phone. Just give us a buzz and we’ll come get you.”

For a second, I think he’s going to tell everyone in the boat who I am, but he—unlike Hannah—keeps my identity a secret, and I’m thankful for that.

Claire and I buy a couple bottles of Gatorade at the general store, and then we head out. The miles go by in a blur as we talk nonstop. I try to ask as many questions as I can, hoping to keep her from asking me too many details about my past. When she does ask me about what I do, I don’t tell her that I have a trust fund. I’ve learned from my mistake with Hannah. Instead, I tell her that my parents died, and I’m temporarily living off the insurance money.

“It won’t last forever,” I say “But for now I’m just trying to figure out what’s next for me.”

“I’m so sorry about your parents,” she says, and she puts a comforting hand on my shoulder.

I feel a pang of guilt about pretending that I have money because of my parents’ death. My parents are dead, but there was certainly no insurance or inheritance. I can’t tell her the truth. What would I say? That I’m a retired thief living off a stash of stolen diamonds?