Page 25 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

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“How’s the wind out there on the water?” Braxton asks, peering out the back seat window. “Safe enough to cross?”

The driver’s stony gaze finds the rearview mirror. Switching from Braxton to me and back again, he says, “It’ll’ave to be now, won‘ it?” His voice carries an accent I can’t easily place. Irish? Scottish? Cockney? I’ve never traveled anywhere that would help me know the difference.

As he pulls onto a deserted two-lane road, the wind continues to gust, buffeting hard against the car, causing the wheels to vibrate, the windows to shake. When he finally parks before a small dock, I look at Braxton, dismayed. I guess I failed to make the connection between our destination and his earlier conversation about crossing the water.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” I say.

In a solemn voice and an expression to match, Braxton replies, “Wish I was.”

Outside the car, the wind violently thrashes as I squint into the night, contemplating the choppy sea and the glint of rock in the distance.

“Gray Wolf Island.” Braxton nods toward the faint glimmer of lights. “Arthur owns it, along with this dock, and pretty much everything else you see. One of the benefits of being at the forefront of the tech revolution.” He slides the wool scarf from his neck and drapes it around mine, carefully looping it under my chin.

The act is so unexpected and kind, I feel the onset of tears, but I refuse to release them.

“Not to worry,” he tells me. “The skipper knows these waters like he knows the winds.”

I must look uncertain, because Braxton touches a finger to my chin and angles it toward him. “I’m sorry,” he says, his gaze resting on mine. “About everything, all of it. I—”

The skipper clears his throat loudly from where he waits at the end of the dock.

I gaze past the beam of the lighthouse to the shadowy fortress sprawled across the top of the hill. It’s the kind of place where a girl like me could easily disappear.

“You can’t always control the circumstances you find yourself in,” Braxton says. “But you can control how you choose to respond.”

“Who are you quoting?” I ask, assuming he must’ve stolen it from a meme.

“Every wise person who’s ever lived.” His gaze meets mine. His lips pull into a close-mouthed grin. “It’s going to be okay,” he assures me, but it fails to land. My feet are glued to this small patch of earth, and my legs refuse to bend.

I can’t do this.

If something were to go wrong, I’m not a skilled enough swimmer to survive those currents. If hypothermia doesn’t finish me, drowning will.

And if by some miracle we were to cross safely, what then?

Am I stuck on that island forever?

Do I get to go home for holidays or the occasional long weekend?

Will I ever see my mom again?

“Natasha.” Braxton draws me away from my thoughts and offers his hand.

I remember the side-eyed burn of the office staff when I was perp walked out of there.

The disparaging glint in my principal’s eyes when he decided I was no longer fit for his school.

Mason’s look of dismay when he saw how far I’d let myself fall.

The greedy gleam of my mother’s gaze as she tallied the worth of Arthur’s donations.

Braxton’s features soften, his lips softly parting.

When you can’t go back, the only choice left is to move forward.

Ducking against the wind, I take hold of his hand and follow him down the dock to a waiting skiff, where the skipper hands me a rain slicker and a pair of tall rubber boots. Then I settle onto the bench and hope for the best.

The journey that follows is even worse than I imagined.

Time moves in one direction,

memory in another.

—William Gibson