“Are you sure, Irene?” Swan says. “We didn’t get to talk about my marketing ideas. I have a bunch.”

“We’ve got plenty of time,” Irene says. “I hope you’ll come back once I buy a boat and get closer to my hours…”

“You don’t have to run off, Mom,” Baker says. His expression seems to be asking Irene not to run off.

Sorry, Baker, she thinks. You’re an adult. You deal with your romantic entanglements and I’ll deal with mine. “Enjoy the cookies,” Irene says.

Very pretty redhead. I think maybe Huck got lucky! Go, Huck!

The living room, where Irene is sleeping, is too close to the kitchen to be private. Irene slips through Floyd’s room to the bathroom and sits on the edge of the tub in the dark.

Huck was out with Agent Vasco. She’s a redhead, about Swan’s age, very pretty. Well, Irene thinks, very pretty might be overstating things, but yes, she’s attractive. She’s also the person who took away Irene’s house. She took my house, Huck, and you two are out canoodling at Skinny Legs!

Just as Irene was starting to soften a little and wonder if she should let him know she read his letter.

Vasco!

I think maybe Huck got lucky!

Did he take her home? Did he sleep with her? Irene can’t let herself imagine this. The night she and Huck went to Shambles, he kissed her. It could have gone further but Irene stopped him. She was right to stop him, because when she read the diaries, she realized how wrong it was that she had become friends with Rosie’s father!

Irene’s face is wet. She’s crying. She quit the boat and moved out of Huck’s house because she was hurt by Russ, angry at Russ. And now Huck is with someone else. He’s had the hots for Vasco this whole time; he’d admitted as much, this could hardly come as a shock. The letter said he missed their friendship. Apparently, he’s getting his “friendship” somewhere else now!

She’ll never speak to him again, she decides.

Should she call him right now? It’s nine thirty. He’s asleep.

Irene cracks the door of Floyd’s room; she hears Baker and Swan talking. She lies down on the other half of Floyd’s king bed and falls asleep.

When she wakes up in the middle of the night, she has no idea where she is. Then she hears the steady purr of Floyd’s breathing and remembers.

Her mouth is cottony; she’s still in her clothes. She brushes her teeth in the bathroom and applies her nighttime moisturizer. Her reflection in the mirror is unforgiving. You messed up.

The house is now dark and quiet. Irene grabs her pillow and blanket from the closet and heads to the sofa.

She needs to see Huck tomorrow, she thinks. She isn’t going to lose him to Vasco. Nope, sorry. She has lost too much already.

She wants to be waiting for Huck by the Mississippi in the morning but there are the logistics of cars. Baker needs his Jeep to drop Floyd off at school and then get to work. Cash has to be at Treasure Island by seven. If Irene had let Cash know the night before, he would have dropped her at the National Park Service dock first, but she can’t spring it on him now.

She says to Baker, “Is it okay if I borrow your Jeep after you pick up Floyd from school? I have errands.”

“No problem!” Baker says. He’s unusually chipper. He has made Floyd banana pancakes for breakfast. “Would you mind watching Floyd tonight? I have plans with Ayers.”

“Ayers?” Irene says. “What about Swan?”

“Swan?” Baker says as though he isn’t sure who Irene is talking about. “Oh, we’re just friends.”

Just friends. Maybe Huck and Vasco are just friends as well. Maybe Swan misunderstood the situation at Skinny Legs. Oh, please. Oh, please! Irene isn’t sure how she’s going to make it until three o’clock. She would text Huck right away but she knows he’s out on the boat. She’ll be waiting when he pulls back in. If, God forbid, Agent Vasco is also waiting for Huck on the dock, Irene will…push Vasco in.

I’m crazy, Irene thinks. Crazy about him and just plain crazy.

She sits by the pool with her captain’s-license study materials but she can’t concentrate on characteristics of weather systems or lifesaving equipment. She heads to the kitchen. She isn’t hungry, but what about a drink? The bottle of wine she opened with Swan is gone, but Irene has plenty of other bottles. What if she starts drinking now, at eleven o’clock in the morning, and shows up at the dock completely blotto?

This is so out of character, she’s tempted to try it.

She still has a few Ativan left. Should she take an Ativan?

I think maybe Huck got lucky! Go, Huck!

She hears a car in the driveway. Yes? No. Yes—a car door slams. Did Baker come home for lunch? Irene goes to the front door and sees a black Jeep with tinted windows in the driveway and a small woman with a limp brown ponytail approaching. Probably she’s lost. Hikers come out this way looking for the start of the Reef Bay Trail coastal walk, but that’s up the hill.

“Can I help you?” Irene says.

“Irene Steele?” the woman says.

Irene blinks, looks again at the Jeep. Didn’t Huck say something about a black Jeep with tinted windows? Yes. He saw one loitering on Jacob’s Ladder.

“I’m sorry,” Irene says. “Do I know you?” The woman is wearing a plain white short-sleeved blouse and khaki capris. She has a pale, round face and brown eyes. FBI? Irene wonders. They’ve taken everything she has. If they ask for anything more, she’ll give them the Christmas ornaments.

“Irene.” The woman checks their surroundings as though she thinks they’re being watched. “May I come in? I need to speak to you confidentially.”

“About?”

“Your husband,” the woman says. “And Todd Croft.”

“Are you with the FBI?” Irene asks. “I’d like to see some ID.”

“I’m not with the FBI,” the woman says. She takes a step closer to the screen door and lowers her voice. “Irene, we’ve spoken on the phone. I’m Marilyn Monroe.”

Irene’s hand flies to her mouth. Marilyn Monroe was the person who called Irene on New Year’s Day to tell her Russ was dead. She was Todd Croft’s secretary, but it seemed like she’d dropped off the face of the earth.

She looks nothing like the famous Marilyn Monroe. Under other circumstances, Irene might find this amusing.

Irene holds the door open, then locks both the screen and the solid wood door behind Marilyn. Turns the dead bolt.

“Yes,” Marilyn says, as though this is a necessary measure.

“Can I offer you anything—”

“We just need a quiet place to talk,” Marilyn says. She looks around the Happy Hibiscus. “He hasn’t gotten in here, so it’s safe.”

“Who?”

“My husband,” Marilyn says. “Todd.”

“Todd Croft is your husband?” Irene doesn’t mean to sound incredulous but she’d thought Todd Croft, with all his money and power, would have a trophy wife. Someone like…Swan Seeley. Polished, put together, a woman who wears five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume and carries a two-thousand-dollar bag, someone who owns a cigarette boat so she can zip over to Virgin Gorda for a facial at Little Dix. This woman looks like she drives in a carpool, then heads home to scrapbook. She’s neither fat nor thin, neither pretty nor ugly. How would Irene describe her to the police? Round face, clear skin, a nice straight part in her brown hair. She wears a gold wedding band next to a diamond engagement ring; her nails are filed into pretty ovals, though they’re unpolished. She has leather thong sandals on her feet and a gold anklet so thin it’s almost imperceptible. Irene can’t recall the last time she saw anyone wearing an anklet. Her sorority sister Sandra, maybe, back in 1985. She must be Irene’s age, maybe a few years younger. Fifty-two or fifty-three, Irene would guess.