“Ari, can you cover the rest of my shift?” I fold up the flyer and shove it into my pocket. “I need to get ready for a gala.”

FORTY-FIVE

Morgan agrees to meet me outside the theater. She’s not dressed up in the traditional sense. While gala guests are passing us by in cocktail dresses and suits, Morgan is wearing sleek black pants and a sweater with a sequined cow on the front. The only indication that she’s going to a semiformal event is the swipe of thick, sparkly black eyeliner on her eyes and the way she’s braided her hair into an intricate crown that frames her face.

I’m wearing a red-and-white polka dot dress that I wore to an uncle’s second wedding last fall, along with a red cardigan and red ballet flats. It was the best I could pull together on short notice, and … well, I feel bolstered because it makes my red lipstick pop.

Dream about this, Quint Erickson.

Morgan gives me the once-over when I approach, before nodding. I’m not sure what she approves of. Maybe that there isn’t a speck of leather to be seen.

“I like your lipstick,” she says, before adding, “I hope it wasn’t tested on animals.”

I laugh, grateful for the icebreaker. “Me too,” I say, because I am starting to care about that sort of thing, and I’ll be devastated if I have to give up my favorite brand over this new set of principles that have elbowed their way into my life.

“Ready?” Morgan doesn’t wait for me to answer, and before I can catch my breath, we’re joining the steady stream of smiling, excited guests and making our way into the theater.

“Ticket?” asks a volunteer as we pass through the doors.

“She’s with me,” says Morgan, drawing the girl’s attention to her.

“Oh, hi, Morgan,” the girl says. “Volunteers are all meeting in the kitchen to get their assignments.” Then she frowns at me, and I can see a flicker of recognition. “Prudence?”

I’ve seen the girl around the center before, but we’ve never been formally introduced. It’s unnerving that she knows my name and I don’t know hers.

Am I infamous now?

Morgan grabs my elbow and pulls me into the lobby without another word.

It looks … nice. Really nice, actually. Round tables are draped with white tablecloths and bright yellow table runners. Yellow Submarine bath toys act as centerpieces, along with a framed photograph of one of the animals currently being cared for at the center.

There aren’t a lot of decorations, but the theater feels festive. I’d suggested yellow balloons when Quint and I were first starting to plan the event, and had received a decisive no. Evidently, latex balloons are extremely harmful to sea animals, and now I’m certain I’ll never be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of a birthday balloon again. But in place of the balloons, yellow paper streamers twirl around the ceiling and hang from doorways. There’s also an assortment of cardboard cutouts of sea animals dangling from the overhead beams, and a painted octopus taking up the entire back wall. Each of its arms is holding a sign thanking the event’s various sponsors.

And then there are the photographs. Quint’s photographs. Professionally framed and matted and set out on easels around the room. I know they’re his immediately, except these are not the photographs I’ve seen. My heart swells to see that Quint didn’t take my suggestion after all, not exactly. The raffle prizes aren’t pictures of seals being strangled by fishing line and sea lions punctured with dozens of fishhooks.

Instead, they are pictures of the animals after they’ve been rehabilitated. When they’re healthy, splashing and playing in the outdoor pools or being released on the beach, their flippers paddling against the sand as they flop toward the ocean.

My heart twists when I spy one photo of a sea turtle swimming languidly in the open sea.

My sea turtle.

Guests are already clustered around the photos, discussing them, grinning, pointing out various details. The eyes of those animals follow me as I pass through the room.

I spot Trish Roxby adjusting her sound equipment on a small platform, but I avoid making eye contact with her. The last thing I need is to get swept up in small talk about karaoke and head injuries. In fact, I’m pretty much avoiding eye contact with everyone. I recognize most of the guests here. Small-town syndrome and all that.

I’ve been going over what I’ll say to Quint when I see him, but I still don’t know if I’m dying to see him or dreading it.

More volunteers are handing out bags of popcorn as guests are ushered into the auditorium for the night’s presentation. Even though Morgan is supposed to help work the event, she takes two bags of popcorn and we move along with the crowd.

As soon as I step into the theater, I see him. He’s standing onstage in front of the red-velvet curtains that frame the large screen, talking with Rosa, Dr. Jindal … and Shauna.

I stop so suddenly someone bumps into me from behind. I hear them apologize, but I can’t take my gaze off Quint.

He’s wearing dark-washed jeans, a crisp button-up shirt, and a tie.

And goodness gracious, he looks …

I don’t finish that thought.

Morgan pulls me off to the side so we aren’t taking up the aisle. The seats are filling up fast. There are a ton of people here. I realize, a little bewildered, that it actually worked. My idea, all my plans. They worked.

A slideshow is playing on the screen, showing photographs of sea animals from when they were first brought into the center, injured and malnourished, to shots of them being fed and bathed or playing together in the pools. There are a lot of images of seals sprawled out leisurely on the concrete, and little sea lion heads popping out of the water. Stacks of sea otters piled on top of one another. Every time one of these images shows up on the screen, the entire audience melts with a unanimous aww.

There are advertisements, too, promoting all the businesses that helped make the gala possible, and, occasionally, a slide thanking the volunteers who helped organize the event. Quint is at the top of the list, while my name is nowhere to be seen. It feels like one more betrayal.

I feel eyes on me and shift my attention back to Quint. He’s staring at me, his lips parted in surprise.

I lift my chin, refusing to look away. Whether or not he believes it, I deserve to be here every bit as much as he does.

He closes his mouth and I see his jaw tense. A shadow comes over his eyes and he turns away.

My palms have gone sweaty and I try to distract myself by shoveling a few handfuls of popcorn into my mouth, but despite the butter and salt left behind on my fingers, I don’t taste a thing. I need a better distraction.

Rosa takes a microphone from one of the theater staff members. They must be getting ready to start.

Quint leaves the stage and walks up the aisle. Toward me. But he makes a point of not looking at me as he passes by.

I swallow. Shauna starts to make her way off the stage, too. My eyes follow her, scowling. On instinct, I squeeze my fist shut.

I wait.

Three seconds. Five.

Nothing happens.

The projector clicks off, leaving the screen black. The houselights dim, leaving the stage illuminated. Rosa walks to the center and begins by thanking everyone for coming. She thanks the sponsors, the donors, the volunteers. Then she begins to talk about the center and their purpose, giving statistics of how many animals they’ve helped over the years, and how they continue to need the community’s support.

I turn and push through the doors, back into the lobby. Rosa’s voice fades behind me.

Quint is standing by the concessions stand, helping another volunteer arrange napkins in front of a stack of champagne glasses.

“Quint?”

His spine straightens. He sets down the stack of napkins, exhales loudly, and slowly turns to face me. “If you’re not here to return that money, then I hope you at least bothered to purchase a ticket.”

I grind my teeth. Is he really going to make a scene here, in front of a stranger? But then I look at the volunteer at the counter and see it isn’t a stranger at all. It’s Ezra.

He gives me a casual smile and a playful salute. “Looking good, Prudence.”

His comment almost doesn’t filter past my irritation with Quint, but … it is something to be said for Ezra Kent. He’s good at diffusing tense emotions. I feel the knots in my shoulder unwind, just a tiny bit. “Quint, I need to talk to you.”

“Oh? Why do I get the feeling you didn’t come here to apologize?”

My shoulders tighten right back up. “Maybe because I have nothing to apologize for?”

He starts to roll his eyes.

“Listen to her,” says a voice from behind me. Morgan appears at my side, her hands on her hips. “There have been developments.”

He looks at Morgan, surprised. “What are…” He doesn’t finish, his attention darting between the two of us, growing more curious by the second. “What’s going on?”

I glance around. Volunteers are starting to set the tables for dinner. It’s too crowded, and I don’t want any eavesdroppers.

“Can we go somewhere else to talk? I think I might know who took that money, but if I’m wrong … well. I know how terrible it is to be wrongfully accused of something.”

“But we’re pretty sure we’re right,” adds Morgan.

Quint’s frown deepens. I can see him contemplating. Not believing me, but … wanting to.

“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll bite.”

“Oh, thank god,” says Ezra. “The suspense was killing me.”

Quint glances at him, then at the array of champagne flutes. “Could you—”

“On it,” says Ezra, taking the napkins. “Just bring me juicy details when you’re done.”

Quint leads me and Morgan through an Employees Only door, past a break room where chefs from Blue’s Burgers are piling cheeseburgers on top of large platters—Morgan makes a face, but refrains from saying anything. We end up in the small corridor beside the theater’s back exit. A bag of trash is sitting in the corner, waiting to be taken out to the alley. A corkboard holds an array of required government materials, outlining discrimination and sexual harassment policies. The papers look like they haven’t been updated in thirty years.