“You aren’t? You know, I’ve mentioned to your nice relations here that we suspect some unpleasant things about the Dear Melissa. Foul play, maybe. Criminals, maybe. Extortion, you see, aimed at the cruise line. We’ll keep popping your ships if you don’t cough up.” The man bent down and jerked open Dorian’s dresser: not just any drawer but the bottom one. Dorian was suddenly very still. The drawings . . .

The man threw a pair of jeans onto the bed. Dorian forced himself to be casual, even obnoxious.

“So?”

“Well, I’ve explained to them that these extortionists are smart people. They recruit someone on board to help out. Someone impressionable, like a teenager. Naturally, I told them, young Mr. Hurst will want to do whatever he can to help us bring these fiends to justice.” A gray sweater flew after the jeans, landing on Dorian’s knees. That freckled hand couldn’t be more than half an inch away from grazing the stacks of paper.

“Wait!” Dorian yelped the word, and the agent straightened and raised his eyebrows, his pink lips puckering. “Of course I want to help. I just didn’t see why it had to be Anchorage.”

“Can’t stand the thought of getting out of this dump for a day or two?”

Dorian stared him down. “Can I get dressed, please?”

“You hadn’t exactly studied for that test, anyway, had you? I’m doing you a favor.”

“Are you trying to see me with my clothes off?”

“You think you’re the first person to come up with that line?” The agent was sneering, but he still backed off, slapping the pale lavender door shut behind him.

Dorian wasn’t about to put on the clothes the agent had flung at him. He picked out an outfit that was as obviously different as possible: a red hoodie over a ragged Mr. Bubble T-shirt marked all over with his own sketches, a pair of black cargo pants. Then he reached through the tangled clothes in the bottom drawer and stroked the paper. Even without looking he was painfully aware that he was touching an image of Luce’s face. He stared around the room, but there was really no better place to hide the drawings. Not from someone who might search, anyway.

After a minute’s thought, he pulled the drawings out and slipped them under a pile of Lindy’s knitting magazines. He didn’t think she ever looked at them.

A day or two? What would Luce think if he wasn’t at the beach tonight?

He walked out into the kitchen and found Lindy nervously flipping pancakes while the tall agent leaned on the counter. He gave Dorian’s outfit a sharp once-over but didn’t say anything. Lindy caught the look, though, and turned to Dorian reproachfully.

“Dorian, couldn’t you wear something nicer? For your trip with Agent Smitt?”