“Don’t tell me!” I said. I have this notion that if I don’t know any particulars, I’ll be safe. I have almost a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in my bottom drawer. It’s a lot, but is it enough to live on for the rest of my life? I thought about Maia going to high school—I want to be able to send her to Antilles on St. Thomas—and then to college in the States. Russ must have savings, right? If not, we could sell the villa and move someplace smaller. We don’t need nine bedrooms; we never have guests. Seven of the bedrooms have never even been slept in.

Russ said, “If I quit, things will change. For the worse, initially, and then for the better.”

“Quit,” I said.

November 19, 2018

My hand is shaking as I write this. I’m thinking about calling the police, but the police here on St. John won’t be able to do anything. I need to call the FBI. But if I do that, I might get Russ in trouble.

I was waiting tables at La Tapa tonight when Tilda told me there was a one-top, a man, who had asked for me specifically. This was the downside of being mentioned by name so frequently on TripAdvisor. Complete strangers pretended they knew me.

“He’s ridiculously hot,” Tilda said. “In a Clooney-meets-Satan kind of way.”

That description should have tipped me off but it was a busy night and I didn’t have time to think. I approached the table and noted only that Tilda’s description was accurate; the guy was attractive but scary-looking. Sharply dressed, too sharp for the Virgin Islands.

“Hello,” I said. “Welcome to La Tapa.” I handed him a menu and the wine list. “Can I get you started with sparkling, still, or tap water?”

He looked up. “Hello, Rosie,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do I know you?”

In the split second before he spoke, it clicked: Todd Croft.

“Todd Croft,” he said.

I wanted to scream. I did a quick survey of the restaurant. Who could help me? Skip was behind the bar. There was no way he could handle this. Ayers could, maybe. Or Tilda.

Or me. I could handle this.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“How old is your daughter now?” he asked. “Twelve?”

The mention of Maia made me bend down and get in his face. “Get out of here,” I whispered. “This is my island. Mine, not yours. If your intention was to come in here and threaten me or threaten my family, I would think again. I know people.”

He seemed amused by that. “Do you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.” I was thinking of Oscar. If I took twenty or thirty thousand dollars from the drawer, could I get Oscar to board Bluebeard in the middle of the night and shoot Todd Croft, or at least scare him to death?