“Did you shake things up too much?”

“Something like that. Apparently, there are some rules that aren’t meant to be bent or broken.”

“It’s their loss, then. I bet you make a very dull society that much more fun.”

He turns down another road, glancing out the window, the roar of the ocean growing louder.

“How much longer until we’re there?” I ask. It’s so dark out here; many of the ramshackle houses don’t appear to have electricity.

“I’m not sure,” Sam replies. “The man at the gas station said it should be up ahead.”

If my reputation hadn’t already been ruined, this—being alone with a strange man at this late evening hour—would likely do the trick.

And at the same time, I don’t care. There are no judging stares out here, no whispers to fill my ears with how far my family has fallen, about the honor that has been squandered away. There is only freedom.

If Frank has come after me, it’ll be that much harder for him to find me.

I take a deep breath of the ocean air.

* * *

—

“This is it,” Sam says as we pull into the parking lot.

It’s too dark to judge whether the Sunrise Inn lives up to its name and offers a scenic view, but the exterior appears clean enough, and at the same time, not too expensive for my dwindling finances. The money I saved by driving up with Sam rather than taking the train will help a great deal indeed.

I’ve been poor for so long, six years since the Great Crash that set everything in motion, that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to not worry about such things, to stay in some of the finest hotels money can buy without blinking an eye. It’s strange how quickly everything can change. How your life can be on one path, and suddenly, you’re on a completely different one with little to no warning at all, ill-prepared for the challenges ahead.

I follow Sam into the inn after he parks the car, dragging my elegant case behind me.

“Let me get that for you,” he offers.

“I have it.” The least I can do is carry my own suitcase.

Sam’s lips quirk at my reply, but he doesn’t argue the point any further.

We’re greeted by a man who introduces himself as Matthew and secures us two rooms next to each other, offering to send up a light snack from the kitchen.

The pie and coffee from Ruby’s were hardly filling, but I plead exhaustion over hunger, needing to conserve my funds—I’ve certainly grown used to the nagging emptiness in my belly.

My body is stiff as I climb the stairs to my room, the hours on the train, on the ferry, and in the car taking their toll. We part ways at the entrances of our respective rooms, and I walk into the bedroom and shut the door. The room is small and sparsely decorated, but clean enough, the walls paper-thin by the sounds coming from Sam’s room, as I envision him going about the same routine I am: opening his suitcase, removing his nightclothes, stripping the travel-mussed clothes from his body.

Once I have finished, I sink into the cool, crisp sheets, the sound of the ceiling fan whirring overhead mixing with the waves outside the inn.

We agreed to meet tomorrow morning to head over to the veterans’ camps together. No matter how many times I said I was fine to go on my own, Sam insisted he was happy to accompany me.

It’s enough to make a girl think a guy’s sweet on her, although in his case, it’s likely more a matter of duty than anything else, and while I enjoy preserving my independence in theory, I haven’t the luxury for my principles at the moment.

There’s a rustle on the other side of the wall, a creak of wood, a soft thud.

I fall asleep.

Eight

Helen

It’s late in the evening by the time my shift ends, the people on the streets changing from locals going about their daily lives to tourists and troublemakers searching for a good time.

My entire body aches as I walk out the side door of Ruby’s, my feet already protesting the trek home. My apron pocket is filled with a good amount in tips; we kept busy most of the day, the holiday weekend drawing a larger crowd than normal.

The sky is a cloudy one, the moon nowhere to be found, the prospect of rain in the air.

A forgotten copy of the Key West Citizen litters the ground, a storm warning on the front page. It was a popular topic of conversation in the diner this evening; hurricane predicting—guessing, more like—is its own sport around these parts. It’s the fishermen who usually know best. When you live and die by the water, you learn to read her tells. If Tom thinks the storm is going to miss us, I’m inclined to agree.

A rustle sounds in one of the bushes, and I steel myself for whatever manner of wildlife is about to greet me. We share this island with all forms of animals—alligators, deer, snakes, and rats—and while I’ve never begrudged them the space, the dark night is hardly the time I wish to cross paths with them.

But it isn’t an animal that greets me.

It’s a man.

Another rustle.

Two men.

I recognize them from earlier today; they lingered over their coffee and pie for longer than most, leaving behind an ashtray of stubbed-out cigarettes.

“Evening,” the one closest to me calls out, his hat pulled low over his face, moving with the languid ease of a man with booze in his belly loosening his limbs.

“Good evening,” I reply automatically, my gaze drifting from the first man to the second and back again.

“There’s no need for any trouble,” the first man says. “We want the money in your pocket, and we’ll be on our way.” His gaze drifts down to my stomach and back to my face. “No need for any harm to come to you or your baby. No need for any fuss.”

I open my mouth to scream for help, but there’s no sound, panic and fear closing up my throat, my feet rooted to the ground, my body tense.

The smell of gin coming off him makes my stomach turn. It fairly oozes from his pores, as though he bathed in it, that sticky, sweet, sweaty scent that reminds me of Tom when he’s gone off on another bender.

As hard as I try to make myself move, run, scream, it’s as though I’m frozen in place.

“Did you hear me? Give us the money. Now.”

There’s an edge to his voice, a warning in that word “now” that I recognize intimately, the threat there altogether familiar.

We need the money, and I don’t want to think about how angry Tom will be if I come home empty-handed, but—