“You asked me once what I did when I came down to Key West so often. I came to Ruby’s. I came to see you.”

And then, the last confession—

“I don’t even like key lime pie.”

He leans down and kisses the top of Lucy’s head, caressing her blond hair, and when he stares back up at me, tears swim in his eyes.

The instinct is there to reach for him, but I can’t trust it. I can’t trust myself. There is too much between us, my life is too complicated, and more than anything, I am afraid.

And then he’s gone.

Thirty-Five

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1935

Elizabeth

I wake the next morning to an empty bed, a pair of train tickets set on the nightstand next to me, Sam nowhere to be seen.

Our train leaves in a few hours, our meager belongings packed in a bag by the door. The notion of being in such a tight space is hardly appealing, nor is the prospect of hours in a train car after what we’ve experienced, but it’s time to face the music and go home.

Sam returns to the room as I finish dressing.

“Frank Morgan is dead,” he announces.

My jaw drops. “What are you talking about?”

Sam hands me a folded-up newspaper.

Mobster Frank Morgan Gunned Down in Front of Home

“How? When?”

“Last night. No one got a good look at the gunman, or if they did, they aren’t talking. I called the Bureau to try to see if I could get more details, but it’s too early for them to know much.”

“But he’s dead. He’s really dead?”

“He is.”

I sink down to the edge of the bed, my heart pounding.

“He won’t ever harm you,” Sam says.

And I don’t have to marry a man I don’t love.

“What about the debts my father owed him?” I ask. “Will they die with Frank? Or will whoever takes over his organization simply come after us down the road?”

“Whoever takes over for Frank will have their hands full for some time. There’s a power struggle going on amid New York’s criminal element at the moment, and this was the first shot across the bow.”

“Do you think that’s why someone killed him?”

“It’s the most likely explanation. There have been rumors that Anthony Cordero is making moves back in New York. If I had to guess, this is one of his moves.”

My eyes narrow. “Anthony Cordero?”

“Yes, he was one of Frank’s biggest threats.”

“I know who he is. He isn’t in New York. He’s here. On his honeymoon. I met his new wife.”

“The one he met in Havana?”

“Yes.”

“How did you meet her? What was she like?” Sam asks. “We haven’t been able to learn much about her.”

“We met walking on the beach in Islamorada. I liked her. She reminded me of myself actually, before everything fell apart. She invited me over to their house to visit, but with the storm, I never made it.”

“You got an invitation to Anthony Cordero’s house?”

“I did.” I shrug. “What can I say? People like me.”

“I would have paid good money to see the expression on his face when Frank Morgan’s fiancée walked through his front door.”

“You think he knows who I am?”

“I’m sure he’s made it his business to know what Frank Morgan is up to, whatever weaknesses he could exploit.”

“And what does this mean for us?” I ask. “Frank’s gone now. In the beginning, I was, what—a chance for you to get close to him? There’s no need for that anymore. Is this where we part ways?”

“Is that what you want?” Sam asks. “To part ways?”

I’m not entirely sure what I want. As horrible as it sounds, Frank Morgan’s death seems like a gift that was dropped in my lap, the solution to a problem I was still working my way around.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest. I was still trying to figure out how to get myself out of this mess with Frank, and it seems like Anthony Cordero took care of that for me.”

“Then what do you want? Now that you can go back to New York and not worry about your father’s debt, about marrying a man you don’t love. What do you want from your life?”

“I want the space to figure it out. I would like a job, something I enjoy, that enables me to support myself and to help take care of my mother. Something I’m good at. I’d like friends. Real friends, not ones who pretend to be there for me because it’s fashionable. Interesting friends. And I’d like you.”

He swallows. “Me?”

“Yes. You.”

* * *

—

On the journey from Miami to New York, we sit beside each other on the train, my hand clutched in Sam’s, my head resting on his shoulder. We’ve made each other no promises, and I like him better for it, for the unspoken understanding between us that I am not interested in tying myself to another for the time being.

I’ve had my fair share of alcoholic drinks along the journey, the rolling of the train cars sending flashes back to that night. Sam is tense beside me, declining my offer to join me drinking, opting instead to keep his back to the wall, his gaze on the other occupants of the car.

Sam is to return to his job at the Bureau, cracking down on organized crime in New York City, and I hope to establish a new life for myself in the city now that I am really and truly free. For as hard as times are and as much as has been lost, there is a strength that comes from surviving, from enduring, that I draw from now.

“I had an idea,” I say. “These investigations you do—”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You didn’t even let me finish,” I retort.

“Whatever you were going to say is a bad idea. A terrible one.”

“You can’t know that for sure unless you give me a shot.”

“Fine. What is this brilliant plan?”

“These criminals you catch—well, they can’t be all that different from most men. I bet they’d open up more to a woman. Men like to brag about their conquests and those sorts of things.”