But as I watch her walk back down the beach path, I think it probably will be. She’s a journalist in her heart, and when there’s news, she reports it. I think she’ll call this afternoon and let me know the paper is going to print the story. I can picture news anchors around the country saying to their respective audiences, “Remember that viral video we showed you last week about the hero saving the girl from drowning? New information has come to light, and you’ll never guess what it is.”

I figure I’ll have about twelve hours to get out of town.

Which means that if I want any sort of life with Claire, I need to tell her the truth.

It occurs to me that if I left, I’d miss Hannah as much as Claire. This doesn’t make any sense to me. Claire is perfect for me—and the last week has been wonderful. But the heart doesn’t work the way the head does.

Hannah is far from perfect for me, but if I’m honest with myself, she’s the one I would prefer to be coming home to right now.

I’m not sure what to do. Break up with Claire? Ask her to run away with me? I take the final steps to my house, going through the words I should say, playing different scenarios in my head.

But when I walk in the door, Claire is tied to a chair, duct tape strapped over her mouth. There are two men holding guns to her head.

One of them is a hairless gorilla with tattoo-coated arms.

The other one is Marco.

“Hello, old friend,” he says, his lips spreading into a broad, sinister smile.

CHAPTER 15

I STEP FORWARD with my fists raised, and the hairless gorilla comes at me, ready to fight.

“Stop,” Marco says, his voice sounding annoyed.

He presses the barrel of his gun into Claire’s cheekbone. She tries to squirm away, but he keeps the gun hard against her skin.

“Okay, okay,” I say, raising my hands.

“Don’t move,” Marco says. “Keep those hands raised.” Then he nods to his partner. “Now, Jasper, you can have your fun.”

The big guy, Jasper, walks toward me. He’s a good two inches taller than me, making him at least six five. He’s wearing jeans and a Motorhead T-shirt, both pulled tight over a husky, freakishly muscular frame. There isn’t an inch of skin on his bulbous arms not covered in tattoos.

“I can’t tell if you spend more time at the gym or the tattoo parlor,” I say. “But I can tell you don’t spend much time reading books.”

Jasper smirks and tucks his pistol into his jeans. It’s a bulky revolver ill-suited for being stuck into jeans, but that’s where he keeps it.