Maia sighs like an adult. “Well, they lost the villa in Little Cinnamon.”

This news propels Ayers out of her chair and over to the front window. It’s another beautiful day in paradise; things are happening out there while Ayers convalesces. “Lost the…lost the villa? What are you talking about?”

“Gramps said it was tax trouble. But I heard him and Irene talking about the FBI. I think my dad was into something illegal.”

Ayers’s stomach lurches. She collapses onto the sofa. Hidden underneath it are all of Rosie’s journals. Ayers had discovered the journals buried in Rosie’s dresser and she’d…absconded with them, taking them from Huck’s house. They were Ayers’s own private archaeological find, no less precious or revelatory to Ayers than the Dead Sea Scrolls or dinosaur bones. These journals told Rosie’s story, one Ayers didn’t know, and Ayers was Rosie’s best friend. Ayers found herself compelled to binge on them but she’d made herself read slowly and carefully. She’d made herself savor them.

In the final two volumes are passages in which Rosie described Russ telling her outright back in 2016 that his company, Ascension, sold the lots in Little Cinnamon to fictional entities—shell companies. He admitted to Rosie that Ascension was in the business of hiding money, laundering money. And then, in the very last pages of the journal, Rosie wrote about how Russ had informed his boss, Todd Croft, that he was leaving the company and how Todd Croft had shown up at La Tapa and threatened Rosie.

Six weeks later, both Russ and Rosie were dead.

Now the FBI knows and the villa is gone? Ayers’s thoughts are all over the place. Do the FBI agents think Todd Croft killed Russ and Rosie, or do they think it was, in fact, a lightning strike? Ayers remembered hearing thunder that morning. So it was a lightning strike—simple, impossible bad luck. But the scene Rosie described with Todd Croft was…alarming.

The villa is gone.

Ayers can’t help but wonder what this means for Baker. Obviously, if there’s no place for him to live, then he’s going back to Houston.

Ayers feels a deep, crushing disappointment, worse even than her pain about the broken engagement. Baker will leave—if he even arrived in the first place. And what about Cash? Will he leave too?

Ayers brings her mind back to the present. “So Irene is living with you guys?” she says. “For how long?”

“Until she gets back on her feet,” Maia says. She lowers her voice. “I think Gramps is happy. He cut my grounding down to a week.”

“Won’t Irene go back to Iowa?”

“She can’t,” Maia says. “The FBI took that house too.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I told you, there’s been drama.”

“What about Cash?” Ayers says. Because Treasure Island is out of commission, Ayers hasn’t spoken to Cash since Tuesday night. “Is he staying with you guys?”

“He’s living with Tilda,” Maia says.

Living with Tilda? Ayers knew they were kind of seeing each other; they’d been together the afternoon that Mick proposed at Christmas Cove. That was five days ago. Now they’re living together? “Wow,” Ayers says. The toast won’t settle in her stomach; she feels like it’s on a seesaw. Is it coming up or staying down? “Where’s Baker?”

“He and Floyd are at the Westin,” Maia says. “I’m actually headed there in a little while to watch Floyd while Baker looks at some rentals.”

“You are?” Ayers says. She feels a tiny arrow of optimism shoot through her, though she’s too lethargic to even smile. “So they’re staying?”

“Yes, they’re staying. Floyd starts at Gifft Hill on Monday,” Maia says. “Wait until I tell everyone he’s my nephew.”

Oh, boy, Ayers thinks. The Gifft Hill mothers will have a field day with that. “Have fun,” Ayers says. “I love you; you’re my number-one girl. Let’s hang out next week.”

“We can…” Maia says. “But I might be busy with my friends or babysitting for Floyd.”

“Right,” Ayers says. “Only if you can fit me in.”

“I’ll have my people call your people,” Maia says, and she hangs up.

Baker is staying! For a second, Ayers’s happiness is greater than the dread that she feels about the rest of the story—the lost villa, the FBI, Russ’s illegal business dealings.

She should tell someone about the journals; it feels like they’re smoldering beneath her. But…they’re personal, private. Rosie wouldn’t want anyone to see them, of that Ayers is certain. Ayers plans to give them to Maia when she gets older.

The FBI knows Russ was laundering money, so the journals wouldn’t offer anything new. But what about the mentions of Todd Croft? Was there foul play with the helicopter?

Argh! Ayers doesn’t want to hand the journals over. It’s her own private line of communication with Rosie. And if Huck read them, or, worse, Irene read them—well, that wouldn’t be good. And yet to hide them…no, Ayers has to show someone.

She’ll show Huck. Or Baker? No, Huck.

I’m sorry, Rosie, Ayers thinks—and then she races to the bathroom to throw up.

Cash

I’m sure you understand my concerns,” Granger Payne says.

Before Cash can respond, Granger dives into the T-shaped pool and powers out six laps. Then he lifts himself out of the pool, triceps flexing, and dries his face with one of the fluffy white Turkish towels. Over the past week, Cash has become very familiar with all the luxuries on offer here at Tilda’s parents’ house in Peter Bay.

Which is precisely Granger’s point.

“I do indeed, sir,” Cash says. He’s relieved that the Treasure Island is back up and running and that he’s dressed for work. Every day for the past few days, while the boat was being repaired, Cash woke up late with Tilda, and over banana pancakes and mango smoothies, they picked a beach or a trail or both to hike. On Tilda’s day off, the two of them climbed into Tilda’s Range Rover and drove out to Hansen Bay in the East End. They rented a kayak and spent the entire afternoon drinking grapefruit margaritas and eating the sublime tacos—rum rib with chipotle slaw, green chicken curry—at the floating-barge restaurant Lime Out. Lime Out had bar seats attached to the barge, which Cash and Tilda sat in before claiming a floating table. They reclined on inflatable chaises, faces to the sun, drinks in hand, toasting the good life, which they were undeniably enjoying. Cash had to actively fight off encroaching guilt. His family had just undergone a huge financial crisis and what was Cash doing? Drinking cocktails that his brand-new girlfriend was paying for with her black American Express card.

Granger wraps the towel around his waist. He’s about Cash’s size, five nine or so, and is in extremely good physical shape, possibly even better shape than Cash, and he’s fifty-six years old. The villa has a full gym with two Peloton bikes; Granger and Tilda’s mother, Lauren, get up at five thirty every morning to ride together, then Granger does his weight regimen, then he swims.

“Want some green juice?” Granger asks Cash. On the counter of the outdoor kitchen is a carafe of liquid the color of shamrocks. It was most likely put there by Virgie, the housekeeper, who moves around the villa with the stealth of a ninja and who, this past week, has refused to let Cash do so much as take his own dishes to the sink.