“Take your hand away from her neck. You don’t want to hurt her. You want money. I’ll give you all the cash you want.”

Anthony steps forward, and the man jerks, his arm lashing out as Anthony sidesteps him, the blade barely missing his abdomen.

“Not you,” the intruder snarls. “She can get it.”

“There’s cash in the nightstand,” Anthony instructs me, his voice surprisingly calm. “Get the money and give it to him. Do you understand me?”

I nod.

“Drop the lantern,” the man orders, and I set it down on the floor beside me.

I walk toward the nightstand, Anthony and the man squaring off behind me. I open the drawer, fumbling with the contents, my fingers curling around the crisp stack of bills.

The cool sensation of metal brushes my skin.

“She has the money,” Anthony says behind me, his calm voice a sharp contrast to the panic beating in my chest. “It’s enough for you to have a nice life somewhere.”

The man is silent.

“What else do you want?” Anthony asks. “You didn’t happen upon this house.”

“No, no, he didn’t,” I say. “He’s been lurking around.”

I should have said something to Anthony. I should have warned him, asked more questions about why the man was always around the house but I never saw him working.

“I’m not just here for the money,” the intruder replies.

“No, I didn’t think you were. Who sent you? Carlo? Michael? Frank?” Anthony asks.

How many enemies does he have? How many enemies do we have?

“Mr. Morgan sends his regards,” the man answers.

“I should have known Frank was behind this—it’s his style to send his lackey after an innocent woman.”

A loud bang hits the house from the storm outside, followed by a shrill whistle of wind, a shout piercing the night as Anthony moves, hurling his body at our attacker.

They tumble down, their limbs entangled, rolling around the bedroom floor.

It’s an easy decision to make. Whatever Anthony’s past, he’s outmatched in this fight, the man far too large for him to have a chance in hand-to-hand combat. The knife glints in the lantern light.

I lift the gun I pulled from the nightstand—Anthony’s revolver—and point it toward them. Their images blur as they move, fighting for the knife, everything too fast for me to get a clean shot. Our attacker is a bigger target to hit by virtue of his size, but the darkness makes it hard to tell the difference between them, the lantern giving off enough of a glow for me to make out one of their features before they roll away again, the sound of the storm mixing with the growing rumble of their struggle, until—

“Do it, Mirta,” Anthony shouts from the fray, his voice pained.

My fingers shake as I pull the trigger.

There is a shout, and then—

All that is left is the wind bellowing outside, the storm pummeling the night.

Twenty-Two

Helen

I lean against the pillows, gazing at the baby sleeping in my arms, her tiny body wrapped in a blanket we found among the cabin’s linens. In this moment, staring down at my daughter’s face, her lips pursed, eyes closed, cheeks pink, I know there is nothing I would not do to protect her, that all the decisions I have made in my life were meant to bring me to this moment.

To her.

My daughter.

Lucy.

I never knew it was possible to love someone so much, to feel this sense of completeness.

She has my nose. Perhaps my mouth, too. I see little of Tom in her, or maybe that’s my own prejudice. Whoever she favors, she is wholly and utterly perfect.

It’s late in the day, and the storm has worsened considerably in the last hour or so. Concern is evident on John’s face, his demeanor changing as he grows more silent with each passing moment. During the delivery and Lucy’s first moments in the world, he was so intent on making sure she and I were doing well that he seemed unaware of the storm. But now that Lucy and I are stable and the noises from outside are louder, he’s become tense, pacing back and forth.

“The noises remind you of the war, don’t they?”

“They do.”

“Does anything help?”

“Not much, unfortunately.”

“It didn’t seem to bother you as much earlier. When the baby came. Maybe the distraction helped.”

“Maybe. I was worried. Like I said, it’s been a long time since I practiced medicine, and these are hardly ideal conditions. You did well, though. You both did.”

“I was terrified,” I admit. “But you calmed me. It seemed as though you had it all under control. Thank you for that. For being here. For all you’ve done for us.”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I’m glad you weren’t alone. I’ve never seen the weather like this before.”

“I haven’t, either. Everyone thought it would miss us.”

Is Tom out on the water caught up in this mess? Is the storm hitting Key West, too? Maybe he doesn’t even know I’ve left yet; perhaps the hurricane is the perfect opportunity to disappear, to start over.

I can’t go back to that life.

“I hope Aunt Alice stayed behind at the Sunrise Inn. I hope she never went out on the road.”

“I’m sure she’s fine. She probably realized she couldn’t drive. The roads likely won’t be passable for quite some time.” He swallows as another crash sounds in the distance. “How long do storms like this normally last?”

“Hours. It depends on how big it is, how quickly it’s moving, which parts of the storm we get.”

John grimaces. “As soon as it clears, we should try to get you to a hospital. Just to make sure everything is all right. I checked the supplies in the kitchen while you were sleeping, and they won’t last very long.”

Another loud boom erupts, like the sound of something hitting the side of the cottage, and I grab John. His hand trembles in mine, and I offer a quick, reassuring squeeze.

Lucy stirs, her expression sleepy, and I shift her to my other arm. Her lips purse, and her eyes close again.

“She’s beautiful,” John whispers.

“She is.”

“What are we going to do?” I ask him.

“There’s nothing we can do. Hope for the best, I suppose.”