This is on me. It’s all on me. I called Ivan from Rolan’s phone—and then came straight to Croatia to meet him. I’ve seen no trace of Rolan since we ran him off the road, but all that tells me is that he isn’t acting alone.

Why, why did Ivan arrange to meet me? Luka was right: He knew the dangers better than anyone, especially where I was concerned. Why would he risk his life?

I’m sorry, I whisper, if only in my mind, not knowing if he can hear me.

I’m already beneath the covers of the top bunk when Luka emerges from his shower. I watch him pad to the door, check the lock, and then wedge the desk chair beneath the handle. Does he do this every night before he sleeps?

“Luka,” I say as he reaches for the bathroom light. He glances up.

“Am I safe with you?”

“With me, or from me, you mean?” He sounds worn.

“Either.”

He looks away. “Yes.”

I turn onto my side facing the wall, pillow already damp beneath my hair.

“Wake me up if you can’t sleep,” he says and turns out the light.

He undresses in the dark. The frame of the bunk shudders briefly as he slides into bed. I listen to him sigh. Imagine, even, that he has folded his arms behind his head to stare up at the bottom of my mattress. And I wonder if I’ll ever be free from fear again.

19

Breath cools my ear in gentle waves. I am instantly awake, staring wide-eyed in the darkness. Aware of the arm beneath my head, the one curled over the coverlet around me. Smell of skin.

My name is Audra Ellison. I am in a marine hostel in Rijeka, Croatia . . . and I am not in bed alone.

If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend that these arms are as safe as they feel. And I do, for all of three seconds. Any longer and I will stay.

I inch up with supreme slowness, glance back with only my eyes, not daring to turn my head. Slide out from under arm and coverlet both. Reach a foot for the ladder, find the floor instead. I’m on the bottom bunk.

But I’m clothed, at least—having gone to bed fully dressed beneath the covers.

Luka’s breath is slow and even. I ease up from the edge of the bed, swipe my sneakers from the floor nearby. Glance at the clock.

6:11 A.M.

There’s a light blinking silently on the phone—a message I don’t dare check. I pad to the door, feel for the chair. Lift it out from beneath the handle and set it carefully aside. Grab my hat off the desk, pull it onto my head. Turn the lock with painful slowness and a soft, alarming snick before depressing the handle.