Page 10

TEN

RYDER

Killian Sinclair will not shut the fuck up. From the moment we packed up our campsite well before dawn and hit the trail, he’s tried to impress Emily with infinite mentions of Harvard this and Harvard that and hey, did she know that if she were to visit him at Harvard, he could show her around the Harvard campus and buy her a Harvard scarf and give her a tour of the Harvard faculty offices? It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes every time he mentions the Ivy League, because if I did, I’d probably go cross-eyed.

“I did like the Harvard episode of Gilmore Girls ,” Emily says politely, which gives him the burst of energy he needs to launch into a mind-numbingly boring description of the history of the school’s mascot, which is apparently a pilgrim, but also sort of a color.

“And that’s how the Crimson came to be,” he says, concluding his tedious story. When he runs out of Harvard topics, he launches into a long monologue about the fascinating flora and fauna one can find on Isle Royale— fascinating flora and fauna being his words, not mine.

As we pass a small section of shoreline covered in black rocks, I glance at the map Sinclair lent me to double-check that we’re headed the right way. Emily follows along behind me with the compass—which apparently does work, if you’re holding it right side up, and I slow my pace until she’s even with me.

“Hey,” I say, falling into step beside her. “How are you? Did you sleep okay?”

I did not sleep okay, considering that I shared my tent with Sinclair, who snores like a freaking bulldozer, but I don’t mention that. I also don’t mention that I slept with practically one eye open, ready to defend her from another moose or, God forbid, Killface.

“I tossed and turned a lot, actually,” Emily says, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Kept having nightmares of—”

“Now, take lichen, for example,” Sinclair says, practically elbowing me out of the way to walk next to Emily again. “It can appear green, so people mistake it for moss. But actually, lichen has leaves and a more leatherlike texture.”

I let out a disgruntled noise and fight the urge to flick him in the back of the head.

Sinclair raises an eyebrow at me. “You alright back there, sport?”

“Sure thing, chief ,” I say tightly. “I was just remembering all the times I saw lichen and thought, hey, that’s moss! So embarrassing.”

Emily shoots me a look, and I roll my eyes as Sinclair launches into a long-winded explanation of the life cycle of the American horsefly. I would rather sit through an entire weekend of old Touched by an Angel episodes with Lulu than spend another second listening to this guy try to flirt with Emily.

“When you come visit me in Boston,” he says, pressing a hand to the small of her back, “I’ll take you to this great Turkish restaurant in Back Bay. I know the chef personally, and—”

Nope. I get that I don’t have a chance in hell with Emily, since she dates anesthesiologists and made a disgusted expression when she said her ex was dating a professional dog walker—something I take real issue with, as a paid dog sitter myself—but I don’t have to listen to their budding romance with a smile plastered on my face. Instead, I fish a portable Discman CD player out of my pack, slip headphones over my ears, and press play, letting the sweet, sweet, tones of early 2000s pop drown out Sinclair’s endless bullshit.

To anyone else, the Discman probably seems as useless in the wilderness as Emily’s glow-in-the-dark toilet paper. And to be fair, it is. But I didn’t bring the clunky vintage device to Isle Royale for practical reasons. I packed it because Caleb never hiked without it, and bringing it on the trail with me felt like bringing along a small piece of my brother. He saved up from his paper route to buy it when he was a kid and then spent an entire summer listening to a Now That’s What I Call Music! album on repeat. Wherever he went, the Discman and Shakira’s non-lying hips went with him, and even as an adult, he considered it an essential piece of backpacking gear. For one thing, he explained, the Discman ran on batteries and didn’t require charging, and for another, there was something satisfying about bringing a piece of his childhood on the trail with him.

When Caleb died, Tara wanted me to have it, and so I tucked the Discman safely inside the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I was scared to use it, certain that I would somehow rob it of its specialness—its Caleb-ness—by putting my dirty little paws on it. But a year after he died, on what would have been his thirty-fifth birthday, I got into an argument with Hannah and missed my brother so much I thought it might kill me. Desperate for a way to feel closer to him, I drank too much vodka, slipped on his old headphones, and cried my eyes out while I jammed to a compilation album of 2003’s top hits. That night taught me three things: 1) I should never buy vodka again, 2) listening to Caleb’s Discman succeeded in making me feel less alone, and 3) Black Eyed Peas’ “Where Is the Love?” still slaps. Hard.

We stop for a pee break, each of us finding a private spot to handle our business, and when I return to the trail to wait for Sinclair and Emily—actually, just for Emily, because I’m seriously hoping Sinclair gets picked off by a wolf—I suddenly feel the harsh tug of someone ripping the headphones off my ears. Startled, I turn around to find Sinclair watching me with an amused expression, Emily’s Hydro Flask in one hand and my headphones in the other.

“What the fuck, man,” I seethe, resisting the instinct to kick him in the nuts. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, old chap,” he says, giving me a cold smile. “I called your name a few times, but you didn’t hear me.”

“What do you want?” I hit pause on the Discman, my blood pressure rising. If he calls me an old chap one more time, I’m going to lose my shit. I am not his chap, and I am not old. I’m a strapping young man who doesn’t need an assistant named Taggart to lug my gear around, and my patience is running out fast.

“Just wanted a quick look at your ancient relic there.” He points at the Discman, then reaches forward and yanks it from my hands before I can stop him.

He holds the CD player at eye level, marveling at it like it’s the freaking Evermore diamond.

“Forget the artifact collection we’ve got at Harvard, because this is a true fossil,” he says, letting out a whistle as he opens the Discman and peeks at the CD inside.

“Careful,” I warn him, gritting my teeth.

“You don’t mind if I have a listen, do you?” Not bothering to wait for an answer, Sinclair plugs the headphones back into the player and slips them over his ears. He presses a button on the Discman, listens for a moment, and bursts into laughter.

“I’m sure you’re full of surprises, Fleet, but I never pegged you for a Christina Aguilera fan,” he says, grinning.

“It’s a mix CD,” I say tightly. “It was my…you know what? Forget it. It’s none of your damn business. Just give it back.”

“I didn’t mean to cause any offense, sport,” Sinclair says, raising his hands innocently.

“Don’t call me sport.”

His eyes narrow into thin slits. “What would you prefer, then? Dude? Man? Buddy?”

“Silence,” I say dryly. “I would prefer silence.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “Look, I get that you’re a bit peeved. It’s sweet, your little crush on Emily, and I’m sorry if I’m stepping on any toes here—”

“You’re not stepping on any toes,” I interrupt, hating that he’s noticed my affection for Emily. “You are, however, touching my personal property, and I’d like you to give it back now.”

“Aw, come on. I see the way you look at her, sport,” Sinclair says, bobbing his head along to the music. “And I’m sorry to tell you, I don’t think you’re her type. She told me herself on the ferry. A himbo , I believe she called you.”

I do my best not to let his words sting, but they do, and so I try not to let my hurt show on my face. I know I’m not Emily’s usual type, and I know I’m not a Harvard archaeologist with a hard-on for truth and academic integrity, but it doesn’t feel great to have that thrown in my face. And it really doesn’t feel great to know that the intelligent, beautiful woman I’m traveling with thinks I’m the male version of a brainless bimbo.

Sinclair presses a button on the Discman, and his smile widens after a moment. “Nickelback? Really, Fleet?” He shakes his head. “I must say, your taste in women is vastly superior to your taste in music.”

“Give it back,” I tell him, my blood boiling.

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings,” Sinclair says, his tone unnervingly pleasant. “I just think it’s helpful, in matters such as these, to face reality before you let your imagination get carried away. She’s never going to see you the way you see her. This song’s a banger, by the way.”

He points to the headphones, grinning, and something about watching this smarmy jackass mocking Caleb’s music makes me want to burn the whole world down. It’s one thing to know in my head that Emily doesn’t go for ex–long jumpers who never qualified for an honors class in their life, but it’s another thing to hear Sinclair say it out loud. The idea of the two of them laughing about me together makes my skin itch, and worse than that, it hurts. I don’t give a shit what Sinclair thinks, but the thought of Emily seeing me as a himbo, as nothing more than a stupid doofus in a Fleet Adventures T-shirt, makes my heart sink.

And the worst part is that she’s right.

“I don’t look at Emily any way,” I lie, my tone even. “I look at her the way I look at you, or that tree over there.” I point to one of the countless balsam fir trees crowding the trail, wishing I’d never answered Tara’s phone call. “Now give me back my goddamn Discman.”

I reach for the headphones as Sinclair darts sideways, and my stomach drops at the thought of something happening to the Discman. Of it falling out of Sinclair’s hands and breaking, costing me yet another piece of my brother.

“Give it back, please,” I say tightly, “or I swear to God, I’ll—”

“Ryder,” Emily says, and I look behind me to see her watching us with her arms crossed over her chest. “What’s going on?”

Sinclair gives her a broad smile. “I was just checking out Fleet’s ancient music player here. Thanks for the listen, sport.” He removes the headphones and hands them and the Discman back to me, then extends a hand toward Emily. “Shall we?”

She watches as I loop the headphone cord around the back of my neck, and I wonder how much of our conversation she heard. The expression on her face is closed, unreadable, and I don’t get the chance to say anything to her because she turns away from me and toward Sinclair, placing her hand in his.

“Let’s go.”

—

We near the sunken remnants of the SS Explorer just after nightfall, turning off our flashlights when the Smithsonian base camp comes into view. Tents and string lights dot the shoreline, and the tilted railing of Captain Evermore’s ship peeks out of the water. Pale moonlight shines overhead, giving the scene a haunting glow, and I shiver at the chilly night air. The sooner Emily and I get away from this aquatic graveyard and back onto her planned route, the better.

“Hide,” Sinclair instructs when we reach the wreck, and we duck behind a row of trees at the edge of the woods, Emily and I watching as he whips out his binoculars and inhales hard.

“Sharp, you thieving bastard!” he whispers, adjusting the lens as I peer through the darkness to try to see what’s happening. The lights strung up around the base camp provide just enough visibility for me to make out people in wet suits gathered near the shoreline.

“Well, we made it in time,” Sinclair says, lowering his binoculars. “Sharp’s still here, which means the Evermore must be, too.” He nods at me and Emily. “Thank you again for saving me. The world of maritime archaeology will forever be in your debt.”

“It was our pleasure,” Emily says, blushing, and as much as Sinclair annoys me, I find myself pretty pleased at the thought that we played a part in stopping a jewel thief. After all, it’ll make a good story to tell my grandkids someday, and Caleb would have loved it.

“You gonna be okay from here?” I ask Sinclair.

I can’t stand the guy, but he is about to face his murderous mentor, and thinking he’s a gigantic asshat doesn’t mean I want him to get hurt.

“I will be,” he assures me. “Thank you, Ryder Fleet.”

The use of my full name seems a tad dramatic, but then again, so is this entire situation, and I clasp him on the back when he shakes my hand.

“Good luck, man,” I tell him. And good riddance.

“Emily,” Sinclair says, turning toward her, “my dearest Emily. Meeting you has been like finding a jewel even more precious than the Evermore.”

It’s such a hokey statement that I can’t help but snort, and I clear my throat when both Emily and Sinclair glance at me.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “Swallowed a bug.”

“I’ll write to you,” he promises Emily, taking both her hands in his. “And I look forward to the bright, beautiful day when I get to see you again.” He releases her hands and presses his lips to hers, sighing dramatically, and I grimace and look away. It’s one thing to know she’s never going to fall for me, but it’s another thing entirely to watch her fall for someone else in real time.

“You should both leave now,” Sinclair says once he releases her. “This is a highly dangerous situation, and I don’t know what Sharp might do if he sees you. Farewell, friends!” he calls, blowing Emily a kiss as he hops out from behind the tree and runs toward the base camp. “Godspeed!”

“Okay, well, that was a fun little adventure,” I tell Emily once Sinclair runs off. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

She shakes her head and pulls her own set of binoculars from her pack. “No way. We can’t leave until we know he’s safe.”

“He told us to head out, Edwards,” I argue. “He said it was highly dangerous!”

“Well, he’s not my boss, and neither are you,” she says, holding her binoculars up to her face. “I’m staying.”

Sighing, I shrug off my pack and retrieve my own set of binoculars, watching through them as Sinclair runs toward the ship like a bat out of hell.

“Guess I won’t be getting my sweatshirt back, then,” I mutter.

Emily pokes me in the arm and shushes me, and I get goose bumps at her touch. How ridiculous am I that I’m practically melting when she pokes me like we’re two feuding children at recess, and Sinclair got to freaking kiss her—

“There’s Dr.Sharp,” she says, narrating the events like she’s a color commentator on ESPN. “He sees Killian, and ooooh, he looks angry .”

I peek through my binoculars, watching as an incensed-looking Dr.Sharp points at Sinclair and yells to his colleagues for help.

“What a jerk,” Emily says as we watch the scene unfold. “I bet Killian’s going to give him a real firm talking-to about the importance of professional integrity.”

But Sinclair, who’s sprinting toward his mentor like he wants to throttle him dead, does not give the older man a talking-to. Instead, he reaches into his satchel and pulls out a pistol, brandishing it like a gun-slinging cowboy.

“Uh, what the fuck,” Emily says, staring at the scene with her mouth agape. “Did you know Killian had a gun?!”

“No, Edwards,” I say tightly, not tearing my gaze away from the action. “I was not aware that the strange man you invited to join our little tour group had a fucking gun.”

“Give me the Evermore, Sharp!” Sinclair cries, waving his weapon at his colleague. “Don’t make me shoot you!”

“Um, do you think this is some kind of hidden camera show?” I whisper, my heart pounding. “Like What Would You Do? or that Jury Duty show where everyone was an actor except the one guy Ronald?”

Emily doesn’t respond, and we watch as Dr.Sharp raises his hands and takes a step back from Sinclair.

“You don’t frighten me,” the mentor says, but his trembling voice betrays him.

“Good,” says Sinclair. “Because I don’t want you to be frightened. I want you to give me the diamond.”

The older man reaches into the pocket of his jacket and removes a small bag, holding it up in front of him.

“Yes, good,” Sinclair says, motioning for Sharp to hand him the bag. “Give it to me.”

Sharp holds the bag out toward Sinclair, and I hold my breath as he reaches for it. But Dr.Sharp pulls the bag away at the last second, eliciting a cry of fury from the Irishman.

“Never!” Sharp says, emptying the contents of the bag into the palm of his hand. He casts the empty bag aside and holds up a shimmering object, closing his fingers around it.

“I’ll die before I let the Evermore fall into your treasonous hands, Sinclair!” Sharp declares.

“That can be arranged,” Sinclair says calmly. He lunges at Sharp, who turns and hurls the jewel into Lake Superior.

“Wait, Killian’s treasonous hands?” Emily asks, gripping her binoculars so tightly her knuckles turn white. “Oh my God, Ryder, is Killian the bad guy?”

As if to answer, Sinclair raises his gun and fires two shots into the older man’s back.

Emily collapses onto her knees, letting out an anguished cry, and I’m frozen in place as I watch Dr.Sharp fall to the ground. My ears ring with the echo of the gunshot and Emily’s scream, and I clench my jaw to stop myself from retching.

When she cries out again, I reach out to grab her and pull her toward me, my chest muffling the sound.

“Shh,” I whisper, my hands trembling as I wrap my arms tighter around her.

“Shit, fuck, mother fucker ,” Emily whispers, her voice shaking. “Killian’s the bad guy. We helped the bad guy, Ryder!”

I try to respond, but my mouth goes dry and my throat burns with the threat of bile. I couldn’t stand Sinclair, but I’d pegged him as a pompous jerk, not an unhinged murderer, and the realization leaves me sickened.

Emily pushes against me and scrambles to scoop her binoculars off the ground, her chest heaving as she peers into them. “Why is no one helping Sharp?” she whispers. “He’s going to bleed out!”

I watch in silent horror as not one of the men who witnessed the shooting makes a move to aid Sharp. Instead, Sinclair’s colleagues rush toward Lake Superior, frantically searching for the gemstone.

“Find the diamond!” Sinclair shouts at the men furiously. “Hurry!”

I’ve never claimed to be the brightest crayon in the box, but it’s clear to me that the rest of the dive team pays no attention to poor Dr.Sharp because they’re part of Sinclair’s twisted scheme.

“They’re in on it,” I tell Emily, my hands so slippery with sweat that my binoculars slide right out of them. “They’re all in on it. Oh my God, it’s a conspiracy!”

“Even Taggart ?” she asks, clutching my arm. “Holy shit, this is bad. This is so bad! We helped Killian so that he could turn around and kill Sharp!” Gasping, she clasps a hand over her mouth. “Do you realize what this means? I’ve been kissed by a murderer!”

“I really don’t see how that’s a priority right now,” I mutter, gripping my binoculars so tightly my fingers ache. “We need to get out of here. Quickly.”

But Emily, still reeling from the shock of what we just saw, doesn’t seem to hear me.

“I’ve aided and abetted in a homicide,” she whispers, her voice bearing the strained note of someone who’s toeing the line of a nervous breakdown. “I’m an unwitting accomplice to a crime. I’m—”

“Emily!” I interrupt, placing my hands on her shoulders to snap her out of her spiral. “The only thing you aided and abetted was Sinclair’s smug attitude. And hey, maybe Sharp will pull through somehow, okay? But we gotta get out of here—”

Her head snaps up. “You’re right.”

“Now let’s make a break for the woods—”

She shakes her head as she tears through her pack and pulls out her first aid kit. “No, I mean, you’re right about Sharp pulling through. He might have a chance if we help him.”

But I’ve seen enough action movies to know that getting shot twice at point blank range doesn’t end well, and I grip her hand as she starts to get up.

“Wait!” I insist. “There’s an armed, crazy man up there, and I bet all his buddies are armed and crazy, too. I know you want to help, but—”

“There’s no but,” she says, shrugging me off. “I’m going. I won’t ask you to come with me.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter as she jumps out from behind the trees and rushes toward the fallen archaeologist. “Emily, stop!”

But she doesn’t stop. Instead, she picks up speed, and I curse the surge of protectiveness that washes over me as she nears the beach. If I had a lick of sense or self-preservation, I’d haul ass in the opposite direction and leave her to her fate. But I could never bring myself to do that. Because if a woman who’s frightened of jaywalking can set aside her own fear to try to help a wounded man, the least I can do is shove mine aside to guard her.

My limbs leaden with terror, I grunt as I clamber to my feet and run after Emily. I catch up to her just as she kneels beside Dr.Sharp, her jaw clenched as she slips on gloves and places three fingers on his wrist in search of a pulse. There’s blood everywhere, turning the rocky sand under our feet scarlet, and my head swims as I watch Emily press her hands to the wound on his back.

“He’s bleeding out,” she mutters, gritting her teeth as she presses harder.

Sharp makes a pained, muffled sound, murmuring something unintelligible.

I have to do something to help, but I have none of Emily’s skill, and so I just do my best to comfort the injured archaeologist.

“You’re gonna be okay,” I tell Sharp, even though the hollow look on Emily’s face tells me differently. “You’re in excellent hands. Emily’s a doctor, see, and she’s going to save—”

“Jacket,” Sharp mutters, the words coming out wheezy and strained. “Pocket. Jacket.”

“Huh?” I ask, watching as Emily reaches for more compresses.

“Jacket,” he repeats, the word slurred.

“Jacket. Your jacket,” I repeat, finally understanding. “Your jacket pocket. Okay.” My hands shaking, I ease him gently off the ground, just enough to reach inside his jacket. My fingers search for a pocket and find one on his left side, and I pull out a leather notebook and—holy shit, a fucking diamond. There’s a fucking diamond in my hand.

“Protect it,” Sharp grunts, wheezing. “At all costs.”

“Emily,” I realize, “he pretended to throw it! He pretended to throw the Evermore, but it’s here, in my hand—”

“Shit,” she hisses, her gloves soaked with blood as she checks Sharp’s pulse again.

“What can we do?” I ask frantically. “What do I do?”

She shakes her head, making it clear that there’s nothing left to do, and I stare at Sharp’s body in disbelief.

“Emily!” an accented voice calls, and I glance up to see Sinclair striding toward us. He looks from her to me to the glittering gem in my palm, and I slip the notebook into my pocket and close my fist around the diamond.

“Emily, come here, darling,” Sinclair calls, beckoning to her like he didn’t just murder someone in cold blood. “Everything’s alright, there’s just been a slight misunderstanding—”

“Misunderstand this, asshole!” she cries, flinging her binoculars at his head and missing by a mile.

I admire her courage, if not so much her hand-eye coordination, and I rise to my feet as Sinclair approaches.

“Emily,” he says, not breaking his stride, “come on, there’s no need for that. We were getting along so well.” His gaze shifts toward me. “You’re a blathering idiot, but that’s no reason for anyone else to get hurt. Hand me the diamond, Fleet, and you’ll both be free to go.”

“He doesn’t have it,” Emily lies. “Sharp threw it into the lake.”

Sinclair shakes his head and makes a tsk-tsk sound like he’s the villain from one of Lulu’s melodramatic Lifetime movies. “You’re not a good liar, darling.”

His use of darling makes my skin crawl, and I place a protective arm in front of Emily.

“Yeah, well, you’re not a very good person!” she retorts, jutting her chin out like she really told him off. “You’re actually a very bad one!”

Sinclair grabs his chest. “Ouch. That hurt my feelings. How ever will I recover?” He laughs and raises his gun to point it at us, and something wild and animalistic washes over me when I see the look of pure terror that crosses Emily’s features.

I glance around desperately for anything I can use as a weapon, but there’s nothing around us but sand and blood and—wait. The Discman. Caleb’s Discman is clipped to my waistband, and while the thought of using my brother’s beloved CD player as a weapon makes my stomach twist, I’m running out of options, fast.

“Come on now, darling,” Sinclair says, squinting at Emily. “Don’t do anything rash. You’re too intelligent for that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not!” I yell, hurling the Discman at Sinclair’s head with all my might. My aim is much better than Emily’s, and he lets out a yelp of pain when it smacks him right in the forehead.

“Run!” I tell Emily, grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet. “Run!”

This time, she listens. She sprints toward the woods with me close behind her, both of us covering our heads as bullets whiz past.

“Into the woods! Run!” I tell her, my voice trembling as we sprint with everything we have. I can hear Sinclair screaming for his men to follow us, and I can hear my own ragged breathing and Emily’s frightened whimper as the madman fires again. But I hear something else, too: Caleb from a memory, the tinny sound of his voice as he helped me train for the hundred-meter dash championships in high school. “Just run, Ry,” he’d yell, holding his stopwatch up as I hurtled down the track. “Don’t look back, don’t think, just run!”

So I don’t look back, and I don’t think. I just run.