I slip out the door and catch it until it quietly clicks. The moment it does, I turn down the hallway—

And run right into Claudia.

She’s leaning there, shoulder against the wall. Her arms are crossed. Gone, the sweater dress, replaced by a pair of jeans rolled around the ankles and a simple shirt I recognize as Piotrek’s. All of it is. His fedora dangles from her fingertips.

“Good morning, Audra,” she says and smiles. Her hair is wet. “I take it you’re not just slipping out for coffee.”

I purse my lips.

She lifts her chin, glances at me sidelong, and then sets the fedora on her head. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to make the first ferry,” she says and starts off down the hall.

After a stunned beat, I tug my shoes on and start after her, noting that her butt looks better in her brother’s jeans than most women’s do in yoga pants.

There’s a cab waiting at the bottom of the ramp. A moment later, we’re headed down the road.

“So . . . was Piotrek planning to cross-dress today?”

“It will keep him put until we get back. There’s a message waiting for Luka when he wakes up. Maybe it will stop them both from running off and doing something almost as stupid as we are.”

“How’d you manage to shower without waking Piotrek?” I ask.

“I didn’t.” When I look pointedly at her wet hair, she smiles. “I enjoy a bracing swim before dawn. Don’t you?”

My adrenaline is running high by the time we arrive at the ferry. The line is shorter this time, the ferry itself—industrial white with Korean lettering on its side—open for business as though it had never stopped for the night. The driver takes the cab directly into the hull as more cars file in behind us.

We climb the metal stairs to the main deck. I glance below just once, picturing an old white Peugeot sitting alone in that metal cavern, a body slumped at the wheel. I can see the spot from here.

The ride to Cres isn’t half as magical for us as it seems to be for the couple snapping photos from the railing. The island, obscured by haze, creeps closer until it becomes a hulking coastline of stone and shrub.

Claudia’s phone rings. Standing three feet away, I can hear the irate enunciation of every word on the other end. Piotrek.

Claudia’s tone is strangely conciliatory—even as what sounds like a chair crashes in the background.

“How mad is he?” I say when she hangs up.

“He’ll let Luka know you’re with me. And he’s very mad. Rightfully so. On top of everything, I took his phone since I got rid of mine. We’ll have to get rid of this one now that he’s called it from the hostel.”