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“But you had information that he never had,” Don continues. “That matters.”

I nod. There is nothing else to do.

Don stands, crosses to me, and squeezes my shoulder. Not absolution. Just contact.

“You have to face what you did.”

“I know.” My eyes burn. “I know.”

“You should come home with me.” He’s standing by the sofa now, arms folded, suitcase open behind him. “Come back to Riverside. Let’s create some space for this to settle.”

“I can’t.”

“You should.”

“I won’t.”

Don’s mouth tightens.

“Paul. What are you saying? Do you think you’ll just… keep living together like nothing ever happened?”

“I can’t leave him here with this.”

“With the mess you created?” Don asks. “Because, babe, you are the mess. Don’t you think you’ll just make it worse?”

I rub both hands over my face, then let them fall. There’s no good answer that makes me sound noble instead of desperate.

“I don’t know that I could make it worse,” I say. “I just know I have to try to make it better.”

Don studies me, then sighs. “God, I hate when people try on growth at inconvenient moments.”

He grabs his phone from the coffee table and starts tapping.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m moving my booking to a later flight,” he says, still typing, “and then I’m finding you a hotel room.”

“Don—”

“Do not argue with me while I’m being generous. It throws off my rhythm.”

Outside, somewhere below us, the ocean is still doing exactly what it did yesterday, indifferent and blue.

And I understand, all at once, that I am not going back to Casa Sirena today.

Maybe not at all, if that’s what it takes.

Chapter thirty-one

Hiding in Mexico

Clint

By afternoon, the storm has already come and gone. It hit around noon, hard and mean, one of those Puerto Vallarta downpours that pounds the street, then disappears twenty minutes later like it never meant anything by it. Now the sidewalks shine under the sun, and moisture rises off the cobblestone in soft, dirty waves.

My shirt sticks to my back by the time I find the hotel. It sits a few streets over from the beach, wedged between a farmacia and a shuttered little tour office with faded dolphin stickers in the window. Six floors. Beige paint. A sign that probably looked cheerful fifteen years ago.

I check the paper in my hand again.