“In theory,” Natalie says, “the Americans and the Brits work together, but after talking to both sides, my guess is that there’s an intentional withholding of information by the Brits, which always has to do with money. The Brits will hold the copter hostage until they get some kind of recompense.” Natalie pauses. “Hard to know if this is all aboveboard or if there’s bribery going on.” She chuckles. “Actually, there’s definitely bribery going on. Just so you know, even the good guys aren’t good all the time.”

Todd Croft had been arrested north of Trinidad and Tobago the same day that Irene lost the villa. There are a lot of charges against him, but the only one that they’re presently holding him on is resisting arrest. Apparently, he gave the Feds quite a chase. The other charges, Natalie says, might not stick. Most of the paper trail that ties Ascension to money laundering and tax evasion has Russ’s signature only; a few documents also include Stephen Thompson’s name. Although Todd is the founder of the company and the last remaining principal, without any concrete evidence tying him to the illegal activity, he might soon go free, and, if his lawyer is good, he’ll avoid jail time.

“He’s telling the FBI that it was your husband and Mr. Thompson who ran the illegal business dealings, that he was involved only in the legitimate side of things—the soccer stars and casino owners who used Ascension to avoid taxes by residing in legal gray areas. He claims he didn’t learn that Mr. Thompson and your husband had ‘ventured to the dark side’ until September. Ascension is, technically, Mr. Croft’s company and he says those two threatened to take it down if Mr. Croft contacted the authorities. He cited the fact that Russ and Mr. Thompson were scooting off to Anegada without him as proof. And yet the FBI found him heading for Venezuela, where there are no extradition laws. Among Ascension’s clients are entities that are into, among other things, narcotics trafficking, human trafficking, explosives, cybercrime, underground gambling, organ trafficking, and good old-fashioned counterfeiting. According to the paper trail, these entities gave their money to Russ, and Russ created shell companies at offshore banks in the Cayman Islands. He then invested that money in legitimate businesses on St. John and in the BVIs, where regulations are looser than they are in the U.S. They bought and sold a lot of land over on Anegada. They used SGMT, an offshore bank with a reputation for secrecy. That’s the bank your personal finances were drawn on. Stephen Thompson joined the company only a year before Russ. Now, I did a little poking around on him. He was a British citizen, worked for Barclays out of law school, then disappeared for a few years, only to resurface down in the Caymans. But Mr. Thompson also held a passport from Suriname.”

“Where’s that?” Irene says.

“It’s a country in South America,” Natalie says. “They have a pay-for-citizenship policy. Invest two hundred thousand in the country’s economy and receive a passport. That would have allowed Mr. Thompson to move around more freely, without the oversight of the British government.”

“I’m sorry,” Irene says. It’s nearly seven o’clock; Natalie called just as Irene and Huck were driving home from a double-charter day. They are both exhausted and irritable. “I’m sorry, Natalie, but there is no way Russ was the mastermind behind all this.” Irene laughs. “He—I swear to you—didn’t have it in him. Let’s start with…we lived in Iowa. Russ was a member of the Rotary. He was on the school board. He liked puns, for Pete’s sake.” Underground gambling? Irene thinks. Human trafficking? Russ’s definition of underground gambling was the office football pool, and he would have thought human trafficking was something a crossing guard took care of. “He was a decent man. I do still believe that. He must have been bribed by Todd Croft and that was why he was the one who got his hands dirty.” Irene turns and looks out the open window. They’re climbing Jacob’s Ladder. It’s one steep switchback after another and the engine of Huck’s truck wheezes like an out-of-shape geezer on the StairMaster. But they make it, they always make it, and they’re treated to a magnificent sunset—brilliant orange, like a wildfire across the sky. The beauty of these islands is completely at odds with the news Irene is now hearing. Or maybe it’s not at odds. Maybe this beauty was what seduced Russ. Irene knows better than anyone that once you experience life in this paradise, you’ll do anything to keep it. “Todd Croft offered Russ more money than he could possibly imagine,” Irene says. “Russ made fifty-seven thousand dollars a year selling corn syrup. We were always struggling before he took this job. All I can think is that Todd offered him millions, and in exchange, he agreed to be the fall guy if they ever got caught.” Irene swallows. “He was that desperate, that eager to please me. I was hard on him.”

“Maybe it was bribing at first,” Natalie says. “But I’m going to guess that, as things progressed, it became blackmail.”

“Blackmail.”

Natalie lowers her voice. “If Todd Croft knew about Rosie…and about Maia…well, he could have gotten Russ to do anything.”

Huck pulls into the driveway. Irene sees Baker and Floyd out on the deck with Maia. She can’t continue a conversation that involves organ trafficking—and not the church kind of organ—while she’s looking at her grandchild. She has to end this call. “Right,” Irene says.

“But we have no way to prove Todd did that,” Natalie says. “Yet.”

Ayers

Baker must have had a sixth sense that something was going on because he’d called Ayers while she was in the bathroom holding the pregnancy test with a shaky hand.

Positive.

Ayers had stared at the screen of her ringing phone. Baker was listed in her contacts as “the Tourist” with a photo of a leatherback sea turtle.

She’d declined the call.

She was pregnant? Well, yeah. Obviously. Of course.

Ayers wasn’t a complete idiot; pregnancy had been her first thought, but she’d dismissed it immediately because it was too awful and Ayers had had so much awful piled on her recently that there wasn’t room for any more. Rosie dying, a broken engagement, and now…

When Ayers got back together with Mick, she’d insisted he use a condom because of Brigid. He’d been good about this. Not happy, but conscientious. Even the night of their engagement, he’d used a condom.

The only time Ayers had had unprotected sex was with Baker on their single night together. It was just that one night. A couple of times, but still.

Still, that was all it took. One egg and one sperm—baby.

Well, she couldn’t have a baby. She could barely take care of herself. She lived in a studio—cute, but unsuitable. Her houseplants were dying. Where would she put a crib? A high chair? A Pack ’n Play or a bouncy chair or a swing or any of the other large, noisy paraphernalia that babies required?

She could, maybe, have had Mick’s baby, because Mick was a known quantity to Ayers. But to have a baby with Baker, a person she had been on exactly one date with and slept with twice?

She wasn’t prepared for any kind of conversation with Baker. She sent him a text: I’ve come down with something. It’s bad and I wouldn’t want you or Floyd to catch it. I’ll call you when I’m better.