Page 23

TWENTY-THREE

RYDER

“Breathe, Emily!” I command, pulling her out of the water and onto the dock. “Breathe. Please!”

Watching her collapse after Sinclair’s blow fueled me with a rage so intense it scared me, and I grabbed him and threw him into the lake, then dove in after Emily.

Now, as I settle her onto the dock and press my palms against her chest, begging her to wake up, Sinclair fires at us from the water, swimming toward us like the little cockroach he is.

“Where is the diamond, Fleet?” Sinclair screams, pulling himself onto the dock.

I ignore him, focused only on getting Emily to breathe again. The bastard had the diamond in his hand when I lunged at him, and for all I care, it’s on its way to the bottom of Lake Superior as we speak.

Sinclair sprints at me, delivering a swift kick to my ribs as I crouch over Emily, and I yell out in pain and stagger to my feet to fight him off. I watch, panicking, as Malcolm and two more of Sinclair’s henchmen stride toward us, guns and scowls out, but I breathe a sigh of relief when Emily opens her mouth and coughs, spewing up a mouthful of lake water.

“Here’s your diamond, motherfucker,” she croaks, reaching for something on the deck just beyond her grasp.

She closes her fingers over the Evermore, which must have fallen from Sinclair’s hand when I shoved him into the water, and clambers to her feet.

“Enough!” Sinclair shouts, incensed. He points his gun at Emily, fury flickering in his eyes. “Give me my diamond, you bitch!”

I want to sever his head from his body with my bare hands, because I’ll be damned if someone calls Emily a bitch right in front of me and lives to see another day. But she only shakes her head, staring at the diamond in her hand like she’s seeing it for the first time. She mumbles something to herself, the lines of her forehead furrowed in thought, and then the concentration on her face gives way to a flicker of something else: relief, maybe, or realization. Whatever it is, I don’t understand it, and I can only watch in confusion as she laughs the slightly maniacal laugh of someone who’s barely slept or eaten in days.

“Give me the diamond,” Sinclair repeats, his tone venomous.

But she only grins at him. “I can’t,” she says simply, not anxious or afraid. “I can’t give you the diamond.”

She laughs at the stone in her hand, actually doubling over in amusement, and I wonder if I didn’t move quite fast enough to get her out of the water before a few of her brain cells started dying off.

“Focus on what’s real,” she says, looking not at me or Sinclair but only at the diamond. “Focus on what’s real. Of course.”

“Emily,” Sinclair says, “this whole Mad Hatter routine is highly unattractive, darling. Now give me the diamond before I kill you.”

She smiles at him, her gaze steady, focused.

“No,” she says. “I can’t. Because there is no diamond.”

“Stop playing around,” Sinclair snaps, his tone venomous. He pauses, as if registering the fact that Emily is standing near the edge of the dock and could easily toss the diamond into the lake if she wanted, and takes a deep breath.

“I mean, of course there’s a diamond,” he adds, his tone less acidic. “It’s that big, gleaming thing in your hand right there.” He extends an open palm toward her and whistles softly, as if she’s a stubborn labradoodle refusing to return the ball she was supposed to fetch. “There you go, love, give it here.”

“I can’t give you the diamond,” Emily repeats, shaking her head, “because the diamond isn’t real.”

Sinclair’s jaw drops for an instant, and then he laughs, grinning at his henchmen.

“Good one, darling. You sounded so serious you almost had me there for a second.”

“I am serious,” she says, lifting the gemstone up to squint at it. “It’s not real. It’s a fake.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Emily?” Sinclair asks, no longer amused and waving his gun.

“Ryder dropped it into a puddle,” she says, tossing the Evermore into the air and catching it like it’s no more significant than a softball. “But it didn’t sink.”

“That’s impossible,” Sinclair says, his eyes widening. “Diamonds don’t float. Of course it sank. It’s a simple principle of density.” He sneers at me. “Physics. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe not, but I do,” Emily says. “I reacted so fast when Ryder dropped it that I barely had time to realize that it floated. But now I see.” She curls her fingers over the gem, shaking it. “Now I know what’s real.”

“You misinterpreted Captain Evermore’s letters to Katherine,” she continues, pacing back and forth across the dock. “He’s not talking about a literal diamond. He’s using the stone as a metaphor, as a symbol.” She looks at me, her gray eyes bearing no trace of fear or hesitation. “A symbol of his love.”

Sinclair’s face twists in rage and confusion, but I can only laugh uproariously, because holy shit, this is fucking hilarious.

“Damn, you got fucking played,” I tell him, the glee almost too much to handle. “It’s a metaphor, bitch !”

“No,” Sinclair says, watching as I let out a series of victorious whoops. “It’s not. It can’t be.”

“It can be, you preppy little murderer!” I say, doing a little jig in his honor. “And it is.”

“You’re lying!” he cries, pointing at Emily. “She’s lying!”

She smirks, and without a word, she tosses the stone off the dock and into Lake Superior.

“No!” Sinclair shouts, sprinting toward the water, but he stops when he sees that Emily’s right. The diamond—or rather, the nondiamond—floats on the surface like a magnificently shiny fishing bob.

“Uh-oh,” I say, watching as Sinclair’s face turns from red to purple. “I don’t think you’re gonna be wealthy beyond imagination anymore.”

The archaeologist lets out a scream so loud and primal that the seagulls on the shore take off in flight, and I cover my ears until he’s finished.

“I sure hope you have a backup career plan,” I say, watching as he dry heaves. “I don’t think they’ll let you be an archaeologist anymore, on account of, you know, the fact that you murdered your boss and can’t tell a real diamond from a fake one.” I grin at him. “Hey, maybe Taggart needs an assistant.”

He lets out a cry of fury, his face so purple I’m actually kind of worried for him, and he points his gun at me. But before he can fire, Malcolm and the other henchmen advance on him, their expressions incredibly unamused.

“If there’s no diamond,” Malcolm says, cracking his knuckles as he moves toward Sinclair, “how are we going to get paid?”

“There is a diamond!” Sinclair cries, pulling at his hair. He points to Emily and me. “They must have switched the real Evermore diamond with a fake!”

“But how could we manage to pull that off?” I ask, relishing in Sinclair’s panic. “Emily’s not that clever, remember? And I’m just a hapless buffoon.”

“Listen to me!” Sinclair cries, spittle flying from his mouth as he screams at his advancing henchmen. “They’re lying! They know where the real diamond is! Apprehend them, you fools!”

“Are you really going to believe them over me?” he asks, his face crumpling in disbelief. “I’m a Harvard archaeologist! I have tenure , for fuck’s sake!”

My stomach churns at the memory of what he did to Dr.Sharp, of what his men did to Biff and Rick the ranger.

“You’re no archaeologist, Sinclair,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Archaeology is the noble art of preserving history, and you’re nothing more than a murderer.”

Emily beams at me, then narrows her eyes at Sinclair as his angry henchmen approach.

“It’s too bad,” she says with a shrug. “They might have liked you better if you’d carried your own pack.”

Sinclair spits at her. “Get back to the ship!” he tells his men. “The Evermore diamond is down there somewhere, and you’re going to find it for me!”

“Amazing,” I whisper to Emily. “It’s like he doesn’t listen at all.”

“Get back to the ship, or I’ll shoot you myself!” Sinclair warns Malcolm, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Because Malcolm, in a move that would surely displease his wife, Miriam, shoots Sinclair right in the chest.

“Fuck,” I say, shocked, watching as Sinclair collapses and falls into the lake.

Emily’s horrified expression matches my reaction, and I reach for her hand and squeeze it. Granted, we weren’t huge Sinclair fans—what with the stealing and the murder and the way he smashed Emily over the head with his gun and almost killed her—but we’re not on board with murder.

“So,” I say, giving the henchmen my friendliest smile when they turn toward Emily and me, “would you guys be willing to give us a ride back to the ferry, or…”

I pause, trailing off as they move toward us without lowering their weapons.

“Gotcha,” I say, reading the room. “No worries. We’ll find our own way. I just wasn’t sure if this was a ‘the-enemy-of-my-enemy-is-my-friend’ situation.”

But it’s clearly not, and Emily lets out a squeak of fear when none of them move to lower their weapons. As I scramble for a way to get us the hell out of here, a wolf howls suddenly in the distance, drawing the henchmen’s attention.

“Emily, run!” I tell her. “Swim to the speedboat!”

For once, by some truly astonishing miracle, she listens to me. Sort of. She makes a pit stop at the edge of the dock to grab her dad’s urn, and then she jumps into the lake, swimming toward the boat with all her might.

“Not so fast,” a glowering henchman says, but I’ve got a plan. Using the cord of Caleb’s headphones, which Sinclair dropped in the scuffle, I wrap them around the nearest man’s neck from behind, then hurl him toward his friends. All three tumble into the water, and I really hope Emily saw that, because it was cool as hell. I dive into the lake, reaching the boat a fraction of a second behind her.

“Hey, Ryder?” Emily asks, her tone desperate. “Please tell me you know how to drive this thing.”

“Uhhh,” I say, watching as she frantically turns the key. The motor purrs, coming to life, and we both let out a cheer as she glides the boat over the water.

But our escape isn’t that easy. Because just as Emily manages to pick up speed, one of the henchmen leaps out of the water and fires one last shot at her. Desperate, I dive in front of Emily to protect her, because just like the Evermores, I really do know what it means to love someone so much you’d give your life for them.

For her, I’d give anything. I crash to the floor of the boat, hot pain searing through my foot.

“Holy shit, Ryder, they shot you!” Emily cries, glancing down at me in alarm.

“I noticed,” I say, grimacing as blood pools around my leg.

“Oh my God,” she says, the boat jerking as she watches me instead of the water.

“Keep your eyes on the road!” I tell her. “Or the lake, or whatever. Don’t worry about me. I’m not gonna die on you now.”

“Promise?” she asks, hitting the gas, and I do promise, I really do, but I’m a little distracted by the unbelievable pain in my foot and the fact that Emily’s dangerously close to capsizing the boat and killing us both.

She speeds up the coastline for miles, and I do my best to fight against the dizzy lightheadedness creeping over me. I’m not going down without a fight, and certainly not before I get the chance to take the woman I love on a real, henchmanless date.

“Campfires!” Emily cries finally, steering the boat roughly toward the coast. “Campfires! There!”

She points to the shoreline, but the boat floor and I are one being now, and I make no effort to look.

“Whose campfires?” I ask, grunting. “Please don’t say more henchmen.”

“No, it’s…oh my God, it’s the marriage retreat group!” Emily cries, waving wildly toward them. “Help! Help us, please!”

I hear voices yelling back at her, concerned and confused, and she breathes out a sigh of relief as we near the shore.

“We’re saved, Ryder,” she promises. “We’re saved.”

And she’s right. We are saved.

“Holy hell, it’s the hot long jumper from the ferry!” a woman’s voice exclaims, and I swear I hear more than one husband groan in displeasure. “And his Debbie Downer friend.”

If Emily’s annoyed by that description, she doesn’t show it, and all is forgiven anyway when the hikers from the retreat sprint toward our boat, helping us ashore once she manages to bring it to a shaky stop.

“What the hell happened to you, honey?” a middle-aged woman asks me, noticing the blood on my leg.

But I don’t know where to start, and I wouldn’t have the energy to explain even if I did. I wince as the woman and her husband usher me toward their campsite, where others wrap us in blankets and press thermoses of water into our hands.

“We’ll be okay now,” Emily promises, wrapping her arms around me and pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

And she’s right. Because whatever marital strife led the couples swarming around us to sign up for a relationship retreat in the middle of Lake Superior, our urgent need for help supersedes it. United in a shared mission, they work together to slow the bleeding from my wound and treat Emily’s dehydration, and the retreat leader uses a personal locator beacon to send out an emergency distress signal.

“You are my heroes,” I tell the retreaters as they apply fresh bandages to our injuries and hand us steaming mugs of hot chocolate, and Loretta, the woman who briefly pretended to assume Emily’s identity on the ferry, shrugs at me.

“We’re not heroes, we’re just prepared,” she says, looping her arm through her husband’s. “Who the fuck goes into the wilderness without a radio?”

Emily widens her eyes at me, trying not to laugh.

“Touché, Loretta,” I tell her. “Touché.”

While we wait for emergency personnel to arrive, someone passes us a sleeping bag, and I huddle with Emily inside it.

“I guess it’s getting serious now,” I observe, wrapping an arm around her. “Since we’re spooning and all.”

She laughs, snuggling her butt into me. “Of course it’s serious, Ryder. You’re the only man I know who brought a Discman to a gunfight and lived to tell the tale.”

I do sound pretty impressive when you put it that way, but there’s still one important thing I couldn’t get done for her.

“You know,” I say, relishing the feeling of lying next to her in a soft sleeping bag and not being shot at, “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for—”

“Ryder Fleet,” she scolds, rolling over to face me, “don’t you dare. You have nothing to apologize for. You took a literal bullet for me.”

She leans forward to kiss me, her mouth soft and wanting, and I kiss her back for a moment before pulling away. I’d love to kiss her all night—hell, I’d like to do a lot more than kiss her—but I can’t afford to get distracted from what I want to say. It’s too important.

“I just want you to know how sorry I am that we didn’t get to scatter your dad’s ashes,” I say, brushing my thumb over her temple. “I know how important that was to you.”

She places her hand over mine and brings my fingertips to her mouth for a kiss.

“It’s okay, Ryder,” she says, wrapping her hand around mine. “We’ll do it at the next national park.”

“The next national park?” I ask in disbelief, wondering if her head injury is more severe than I thought. “You want to do all this again?”

“Well, no, not all of it. I could do without the murder and the trauma and the constantly having to run for our lives thing.” She squeezes my hand. “But I promised myself I would finish my dad’s bucket list, and I still intend to. Besides, you’re not such bad company after all.”

I laugh, and she smiles at me, but then her expression turns serious. Thoughtful.

“You could be a really great ambassador of adventure, Ryder,” she says. “You could be a really great anything, you know. You’re strong and brave and you never give up, and that’s the stuff nobody can teach you.” She shrugs. “The rest of it, you can learn. If you want to.”

Her fierce belief in me fills me with pride, and I don’t fight the urge to press my mouth to hers.

“But next time,” she adds, her lips brushing mine again, “we’re definitely bringing a GPS.”