It was a lie. Beyond sea oats and palms were The Castaways beach cottages, red, yellow, and green. Maggie, the lonely tourist, was putting a suitcase into the trunk of her rental compact, unaware of Ford in his blue truck. Possibly also unaware that, according to the radio, the Midwest was covered in snow.

“Of course, I’m rationalizing,” he told the dog. “At least I’m aware of my adolescent bullshit devices. I have totally screwed things up. I admit it. That counts for something.”

He wasn’t referring to his relationship with Maggie—if that was her real name.

Earlier, after a few hours of sleep, he had made good on his promise to call Hannah Smith. Until then, it had been difficult to think of Hannah, who was rangy, beautiful in her way, and plainspoken, as an ex-anything, particularly his ex-lover.

The first thing out of her mouth was “I could stand here and pretend I didn’t know your boat was gone for four days. I could also pretend I didn’t pick up clients at Castaways on Tuesday morning and see you sneak out of one of the cottages. That was before sunrise. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool a fishing guide, Doc. She’s an attractive lady. I’m surprised you didn’t take her with you.”

He could have contested the word sneak and tried to parlay that into a counter-accusation—“Now you’re spying on me?”—but his respect for Hannah, and himself, wouldn’t allow it. There were only four options in Marion Ford’s world: deny, deny, deny, or change the subject.

“I need your advice,” he had said. “It’s probably better to speak hypothetically. You’ll understand when I explain.”

“Are you in trouble?” The way she had asked the question—worried, eager to help no matter what—still squeezed his heart.

“Let’s say I brought back a guy from Cuba. No birth certificate, no papers, nothing. I didn’t notify customs before I left, and I certainly didn’t check in on the way back. Now, because it’s Sunday—”

“You went to Cuba? In your boat?”

“I wish to hell I’d taken you,” he’d said. “Last night off Naples, I almost fell asleep at the wheel. I can’t think of anyone I trust more.”

The remark, although sincere, had received a frosty response. “It’s nice you hold my boating skills in such high regard, but I’m prone to pickiness when it comes to breaking federal maritime laws. Hypothetically, of course. How can I help you . . . Marion?”

He had hoped to discuss dinner, or a boat ride beneath the stars, but heard himself shift to objective mode: two professionals discussing options and legalities. “Cubans who enter the country illegally are treated differently than those from other countries. It’s not favoritism, it’s law—the Cuban Adjustment Act from back in the days of the Cold War. Immediate political asylum is guaranteed the moment their feet hit dry ground. Even so, I wouldn’t bring in someone I didn’t trust. Now I’d like to expedite the legal process. Or smooth it out, at least. Some of your clients are wealthy power players. And your family has been in Florida forever. So I . . .” By then, Ford was thinking, Just shut the hell up before you make it worse. Or, at least, tell her the whole truth. But he had stumbled along into an elaborate network of bullshit that included a list of possible names.

Hannah had taken the high ground, of course. “Harney Chatham, yes. Former lieutenant governor. He’s a client—and a good friend, I’d like to think. Nobody knows the system better than Mr. Chatham, and he’s on a cell phone basis with every important official in the state. I have his number. Or would you rather I call him?”

Amazing. The woman had single-handedly elevated his deception into an unexpected opportunity. But, first, he’d had to admit, “Hannah, there’s a bunch I left out,” to which she replied, “Why am I not surprised?”

After that, a full explanation was required.

•   •   •

OVER THE NEXT HALF HOUR, the woman’s empathy and interest had warmed to the problem, but her coolness toward Ford hadn’t changed. “Traumatized, of course, by the boat ride and everything else. Then to be put on a bus and driven to some holding facility in Miami and asked a bunch of questions by people in uniform. Personally, I’d need more than a few days in a quiet place to decompress. I understand why you did what you did.”

Ford’s response: “Thanks. I’d like to believe I’m not always an insensitive jerk.”

Not the faintest wisp of a smile did that earn him.

Beyond a crop of sea oats, framed by palms, Maggie—if that was her real name—had closed the trunk and was returning to give her vacation hideaway one last look.

Ford drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Left hand only because he’d bruised, or broken, his right hand on Anatol Kostikov’s head.

Should he get out and say good-bye to the lady as required of a gentleman?

No . . . it was too late for that.

I wish you all good things, he thought as he watched her. Your husband, too.

Ford, when Maggie was safely inside, started the truck and drove to Jensen’s Twin Palm Marina and Cottages, which was bayside, Captiva Island. The next morning, that’s where he was, on the porch of Cabin 8, when Hannah and the former lieutenant governor arrived in a limo. Sitting beside Ford were Marta and Maribel Esteban. In his arms, still crabby from lack of sleep, Sabina lifted her head from his shoulder and said, “My god, Marion. Now what have you done?”

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