I’m just nudging my way up the steps to show my stamp to the bouncer when I see, from the corner of my eye, a stationary figure watching me. What is it with people staring in this town? Fed up, I turn and glare—and then falter.

It’s Luka’s companion, standing at the curb. And when I see his face, I know it’s the same man I saw in front of the ice cream shop yesterday. He’s a few years older and a little taller than Luka himself, who is starting to strong-arm him toward the street. A jealous lover, perhaps? My gaydar is usually better than that. But I can’t think of any other reason for the look he’s giving me now or Luka’s hauling him away.

After a moment the guy relents, but not without a backward glance at me.

I am so ready to get out of here.

It takes me five minutes to work my way to Keri, where she is draped around Nate’s shoulders.

“There she is!” Keri beams, opening an arm toward me.

“Big line for the bathroom,” I say, handing her the phone. And then I give her lie number five: My friend is sick and I need to go check on her. Joel looks a little crestfallen, and Keri insists we swap numbers. I give her the digits to the Fly Shop. And then she’s hugging me good-bye and I’m trying to find a place to put the stupid beer that’s been glued to my hand this whole time.

By the time I finally push my way out of there, I cannot get to my truck fast enough.

As I’m speeding up Lily Bay Road, my mind returns to the numbers in Clare’s cross, and whether I should call the Center, my only contact for her, on Monday.

What had she said when she gave it to me? In case you find yourself in trouble. What could possibly help me if I’m in trouble? I don’t even know what I’m running from. What propels a person to leave her life, fake her death, and start over in tiny-town Maine? And if it’s that bad, why didn’t I relocate to Greenland or, better yet, Fiji? The packet with my driver’s license and letter to myself contained nearly eighteen thousand dollars in cash. A person can do a lot of disappearing with money like that.

That number’s got to be a bank account.

Then why didn’t I put something about it in my letter? How am I supposed to find it if I don’t even know where to look?

Or maybe that’s not it at all and Clare never knew it was there, and all she meant about trouble was something concerning prayer and God.