I turn and look out over the water. I don’t blame her. I don’t like her much, but I feel for her.

I also can’t help her.

“There are a lot of rumors,” she says, leaning closer. “That you had information from your mother. Maybe even the diary itself. A lot of people feel betrayed. For every person who talks about you as the daughter of Amerie Szabo, there’s one that calls you a traitor. But Ivan had unshakable faith in you. Enough to risk his life. And now Ivan is dead. So here I am. I’m going to help you.” There are actually tears in her eyes, but her jaw is like steel. “And you will prove that his faith, at least, wasn’t misplaced.”

I don’t know how to tell her that I can’t prove anything to anyone. That I’m only here because I don’t know how to go back to—or move forward with—my life like this. This isn’t about some Progeny agenda or righting some centuries-old wrong. It’s about staying alive.

She pushes away from the rail. “I’m going to get us some coffee.”

I watch her go to the snack bar inside. And for a moment, I really do wish I could be what she and Ivan hoped I was, once.

But that girl is gone.

*  *  *

The brightly colored buildings of Cres go right to the quay, their walls rising from the water to red-tiled roofs. Boats are docked everywhere. Rolan would have had no problem returning to Rijeka, or anywhere along the coast, in the middle of the night. Might even now be in Zagreb. In that regard, Luka was right.

Claudia has suggested the cabdriver spend a few hours wandering the outdoor market, taking breakfast at one of the seaside cafés. And he actually looks quite content as we drive off in his car.

Claudia takes us through the center of town past restaurants, produce and fish markets. And then we’re headed south toward the western ridge of the island as I navigate the map on her phone.

It rings as I’m peering at the screen. I glance at Claudia, who takes it from me. Her answer is abrupt.

“Yes. She’s fine,” she says. “We’ll call you soon. Good-bye.” She hangs up just as the voice on the other end demands to speak with me.

Luka. No doubt going out of his gourd. Which I feel bad about—unless, of course, he’s been lying to me.

“Well, that was rude.”

“Slovaks.”

I don’t say that I meant her.

“How well did you know Ivan?” I ask.

“Not as well as you,” she says, the reproach back in her voice. She adds, a beat later, “But enough to mourn for him.”