The best moments of the vacation were when Daphne would look up from her book, take a sip of her rum punch, and say, “Thanks, babe”—this, the pet name that the two of them had used with each other, and with Heather, before the accident—“for bringing me here. I’m having fun!”

The worst moment came at dinner on the final night. It was no surprise that Daphne had saved her poison spear for the final night; that was part of the torture: allowing Lock to believe that they’d made it—a whole week without overt hostility—and then sticking him in the final hour. Daphne was smarter, cleverer, and more cunning now than she had been before the accident.

Over a glass of very fine, pale, bubbling champagne, she said, “I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you find Isabelle French attractive?”

Lock laughed, inadvertently spritzing some of his drink across the tablecloth. “No,” he said.

“You’re lying.”

“I am not lying.”

“Isabelle French is a beautiful woman. Anyone you asked would say so.”

“She’s fine, nothing special. Other people may find her beautiful, but I don’t particularly. I’ve known her a long time. Maybe I’m just used to how she looks. I don’t notice it.”

“She’s after you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Daphne.”

“You heard what she did with Henry McGarvey at the Waldorf?”

“Of course.”

“If you touch her, I’ll kill you.”

“I’m not going to touch her.”

“I mean it. I’ll murder you in your sleep. Then I’ll find a female judge who will let me off the hook.”

“Nothing is going on between me and Isabelle.”

“Really?” Daphne said. She tilted her head. Her eyes held a look of unusual clarity. “Because I’ve noticed a change in you since you asked her to cochair the gala. You work late all the time now.”

“I’ve always worked late,” Lock said. “It’s the only time I get anything done. You know this. During the day, the phone rings off the hook.”

“Lock,” Daphne said. She leaned forward over her champagne flute. Another inch and she would topple it with her breasts. “I am not a stupid woman.”

“No one thinks you are. Least of all, me.”

“And yet you’re conducting an affair under my nose.”

Lock thought he might feel something at this declaration, but it fell into a pattern with Daphne’s other rants: she started out with an “innocent” question (did he find Isabelle French attractive?), then ramped up to a flat-out accusation. It was a little more troublesome in this instance because she happened to be partially correct. She sensed something.

“I am not having an affair with Isabelle French,” Lock said with conviction. “And I do not like being accused of such on the last night of what has been a very pleasant vacation.”

Daphne looked amused. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.”

“I’ve been thinking of hiring a private detective.”

“You have got to be kidding.”

She took a long sip of her drink—okay, now Lock’s blood pressure was up a little bit—and then she said, “Yes.”

He almost lashed out at her—she was infuriating, it was inconceivable that she was constantly unearthing new ways to rattle him. Would it never end? Would she ever level off? Would he ever truly be the fortress he thought he was, inured to her attacks? But she chuckled a little and turned her attention to the menu, and Lock let the stream of breath he had unconsciously been holding go, and thought, Isabelle French. Jesus.

When Lock arrived home from vacation, when he was finally, finally, finally back in the office, sorting through the neatly organized piles that Gavin had left on his desk, thoughts of Tortola and the hot sun and the cool water and the books he had read, and Daphne and her taunts of a private detective, all faded away. All Lock could think about was when he might see Claire.

How was your vacation? Gavin asked. Lock stared at him blankly, then said, We had good weather.

Lock called Claire’s cell phone and said, quickly (even though he had prudently waited until Gavin left for the bank with a deposit), “I’m back. Can you stop by later to pick up the . . . maybe seven o’clock?”

Daylight savings time had ended, though. Seven o’clock was too early—it was still light outside at seven. They had to stay in the office, hidden; they couldn’t tool around in her car. Lock should push her back to eight, but he would never be able to wait that long.

So . . . Claire came at seven. Lock heard her running up the stairs, yes, running, and that echoed in his heart, his heart was running, God, only a few more seconds until . . .

He met her at the top of the stairs. He didn’t even look at her, he didn’t have to, he didn’t care what she looked like, anyway—he just wanted her in his arms. He crushed her, and she was crying and he was struggling for air, overwhelmed as he was with love, relief, comfort, peace.

“That was too long,” he said. “I’m sorry . . .”

“I nearly died without you,” she said. “Everything went to pot . . .”

“I could barely breathe at times,” he said. “I missed you so much.”

“Never go away again,” she said. “Never leave me like that.”