“You are?” Ayers says. She feels a tiny arrow of optimism shoot through her, though she’s too lethargic to even smile. “So they’re staying?”

“Yes, they’re staying. Floyd starts at Gifft Hill on Monday,” Maia says. “Wait until I tell everyone he’s my nephew.”

Oh, boy, Ayers thinks. The Gifft Hill mothers will have a field day with that. “Have fun,” Ayers says. “I love you; you’re my number-one girl. Let’s hang out next week.”

“We can…” Maia says. “But I might be busy with my friends or babysitting for Floyd.”

“Right,” Ayers says. “Only if you can fit me in.”

“I’ll have my people call your people,” Maia says, and she hangs up.

Baker is staying! For a second, Ayers’s happiness is greater than the dread that she feels about the rest of the story—the lost villa, the FBI, Russ’s illegal business dealings.

She should tell someone about the journals; it feels like they’re smoldering beneath her. But…they’re personal, private. Rosie wouldn’t want anyone to see them, of that Ayers is certain. Ayers plans to give them to Maia when she gets older.

The FBI knows Russ was laundering money, so the journals wouldn’t offer anything new. But what about the mentions of Todd Croft? Was there foul play with the helicopter?

Argh! Ayers doesn’t want to hand the journals over. It’s her own private line of communication with Rosie. And if Huck read them, or, worse, Irene read them—well, that wouldn’t be good. And yet to hide them…no, Ayers has to show someone.

She’ll show Huck. Or Baker? No, Huck.

I’m sorry, Rosie, Ayers thinks—and then she races to the bathroom to throw up.

Cash

I’m sure you understand my concerns,” Granger Payne says.

Before Cash can respond, Granger dives into the T-shaped pool and powers out six laps. Then he lifts himself out of the pool, triceps flexing, and dries his face with one of the fluffy white Turkish towels. Over the past week, Cash has become very familiar with all the luxuries on offer here at Tilda’s parents’ house in Peter Bay.

Which is precisely Granger’s point.

“I do indeed, sir,” Cash says. He’s relieved that the Treasure Island is back up and running and that he’s dressed for work. Every day for the past few days, while the boat was being repaired, Cash woke up late with Tilda, and over banana pancakes and mango smoothies, they picked a beach or a trail or both to hike. On Tilda’s day off, the two of them climbed into Tilda’s Range Rover and drove out to Hansen Bay in the East End. They rented a kayak and spent the entire afternoon drinking grapefruit margaritas and eating the sublime tacos—rum rib with chipotle slaw, green chicken curry—at the floating-barge restaurant Lime Out. Lime Out had bar seats attached to the barge, which Cash and Tilda sat in before claiming a floating table. They reclined on inflatable chaises, faces to the sun, drinks in hand, toasting the good life, which they were undeniably enjoying. Cash had to actively fight off encroaching guilt. His family had just undergone a huge financial crisis and what was Cash doing? Drinking cocktails that his brand-new girlfriend was paying for with her black American Express card.