Duluth, Minnesota
The coffee tasted like dishwater.
Danny cradled the mug, staring at the brown swirls as the tingling faded from his arms and legs. He’d never felt it that strong before. When she sat down across from him, it was like inhaling a steady stream of nitrous. He had been clutching the table to keep from floating away.
Now that she was gone, he sank into the red leather bench.
When he saw her the first time, he’d experienced something like that, but it was faint. He’d chalked that up to the new environment and nerves. He always sat in the back of the room, never got closer than ten or twenty feet to her. But when she sat across from him, within arm’s length...
Wow.
It wasn’t until the initial rush settled that he noticed the fragrance, a scent that clung to the back of his throat. He assumed it was something she was wearing, an essential oil or something. Even now it hung over the table thicker than usual.
Lilac.
She was beautiful, no surprise. She was stunning, even from a distance. She had the gait of a cat, lithe and dangerous, but fragile at the same time. If she missed a step, he was afraid she might shatter. He got lost in her blue eyes, suppressed the urge to reach out and take her hand. When their fingers brushed, a tingle sent him toward the ceiling again.
It made no sense, but this was the right place.
He thought the photos would jar something loose. Maybe she could explain why Reed sent him. It was just a guess. But there was nothing. All he saw was the ghosts in her eyes—the same ghosts that haunted his dreams.
The memories of Foreverland.
He ordered another coffee and read the newsfeed. He caught up on daily events, counted all the missed opportunities since leaving the villa. He’d stay in Duluth until he figured something out. There was only one certainty: he wasn’t going back to Spain.
Not until something makes sense.
The diner’s bell rang as the door opened. Danny was thumbing through a story on biomite halfskin laws when he sensed Santiago, could smell the Spaniard’s musky body odor, the trace of a cigar.
A strong, slim figure was walking toward him. The backlit glare obscured her features. A slight sense of vertigo turned the table as Santiago’s presence got stronger.
Macy dropped into the booth.
He rubbed his eyes. The smell of Santiago didn’t match up with the glaring dark-skinned woman. It took a moment for his senses to reset.
Her eyes were almost all pupils, the irises dark brown. Unblinking, she folded her bony fingers on the table. The waitress stopped by. Macy dismissed her without breaking her deadlocked stare.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Danny didn’t answer. She was asking something else.
“Huh?” she grunted.
“Living one day at a time.”
“Cute.” She nodded. “You drive a rental into town and shack up in a hotel and decide to clean up in the back of a bowling alley like our chapter is some holy grail.”
Danny stiffened.
He’d been careful to keep quiet, never went directly to the hotel that he’d booked several miles away. He hadn’t sensed anyone watching him, no one waiting in the parking lot or following him.
“You come for her?” she asked.
“You know who I am?”
“I can spot an addict a mile away. You ain’t no addict, son.”
A chill raced beneath his ribs. Son. That’s what they called each other on the island, it was their slang. They didn’t say man or boy or dude. Everyone was son.
“Give me the folder.”
The photos were still on the seat. He didn’t move. She already knew too much.
“I will tear this place apart and beat you with a table leg if you don’t get a move on.” She leaned over the table, never breaking eye contact. “Give me the folder.”
Someone once told him that you didn’t have to be stronger or meaner than your enemy, you just had to out-crazy them. He didn’t stand a chance.
He put the folder on the table.
“Is this a joke?” She spread the photos out. “You trying to make her relapse? Push her over the edge?”
Danny didn’t respond.
“Who sent you?”
That was the question she wanted to ask. That’s what she wanted to know the second she sat down. She was trying to disguise it in all this concern for Cyn’s sobriety, but the subtle change in expression—the slight shift from hard rage to hopeful curiosity—told him she was angling for something else.
“I’m going to ask you again.” She leaned in. “Who sent you?”
“No one.”
She looked around, perhaps considering trashing the place to beat him with a table leg.
“Out of the blue you travel across the world to get clean? Is that what you want me to believe, that you just got a wild hair to leave your life to ruin my girl?”
“She’s a Foreverland survivor. You know about Foreverland, right?”
“I know about survival.”
“There’s not many of us left.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to remember.”
“None of us do,” he said. “But we can’t forget.”
“I don’t care about you or any of the others. Only one survivor I do and you can bank on this.” She shoved the photos into his lap and stood up. “You break her and you better keep running, son. ¿Comprende?”
She hovered over him. Her breath was humid with a faint trace of smoke and lilac. Danny met her challenging gaze.
“¿Por qué iba yo a dejar?” he asked.
She began nodding, a dangerous smile touching her eyes. Cold fear clenched Danny’s chest. Macy shoved away from the table and backed toward the front door before turning to leave.
His coffee was cold.
He needed to find out why Reed sent him here. They knew he was here. And Danny didn’t know who they were, but Reed was sending cryptic poems and planting clues along the way. So there had to be a they.
Why would I leave? Macy knew exactly what he said in Spanish.
There was definitely a they.