Page 9

NINE

EMILY

“Oh my God,” I cry for what must be the twentieth time tonight. “Killian!”

He sputters, hacking up a lungful of Lake Superior, and Ryder scrambles to elevate his head as I look on in shock.

“Killian, are you okay?” I ask, reaching for his wrist so I can check his pulse. “Do you know where you are? Do you know what happened to you?”

He coughs again and opens his eyes, wincing at the brightness of my flashlight.

“Emily?” he asks, blinking up at me in a daze. “Emily, is that you?”

“Yes, I’m here.” Satisfied that his pulse is normal, I give him a quick once-over for blood or signs of gross injury. “Can you move your fingers and toes?”

He winces as he wiggles his fingers and nods, pushing himself up to a sitting position with Ryder’s help.

“Emily,” Killian says again, his accent making my name sound downright musical. “You saved my life.”

“Uh, I saved your life, actually,” my tour guide says. “Emily helped.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, minor detail. Glad you’re not dead, Sinclair.”

“Thanks, sport,” Killian says, grimacing as he presses a hand to his rib. “I’m glad I’m not dead, too.”

“What the hell happened, man?” Ryder asks, watching as I fish my first aid kit out of my backpack and start bandaging a cut on Killian’s leg. “Who was that dude who shoved you off the cliff?”

“Was it Killface?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder warily. “You know, scraggly hair, deep scowl, creepy killer murder eyes?”

“Who’s Killface? No.” The archaeologist shakes his head, his brown eyes haunted as they look into mine. “It was Sharp.”

“Dr.Sharp?” I ask with a gasp. “Your mentor? The super nice guy we met on the ferry?”

Killian clenches his jaw. “Turns out that ‘nice guy’ is a thieving, cold-blooded psychopath who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Not even murder.”

“I don’t understand.” Ryder studies Killian in confusion. “Why would a friendly old man in a newsboy cap want to kick your ass and murder you?”

Killian’s nostrils flare. “To be clear, he did not kick my arse. We kicked each other’s arses.” He winces as I apply a compress to a gash on his cheek. “And he did it because I tried to stop him from stealing a precious piece of history and selling it for his own selfish gains.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, wondering if Killian somehow hit his head when he landed. “What precious piece of history?”

“A jewel,” Killian says, his tone reverent. “A rare and precious diamond worth more money than you or I could ever dream of.”

“Uh, hold up,” Ryder says, lifting a hand for quiet. “Sinclair, are you okay, dude? Because you’re telling me that your boss, who, let me repeat, wears a newsboy cap , shoved you off a cliff so he could get his hands on some kind of diamond?” He squints at Killian. “Do you have some sort of concussion, maybe? Because this is all sounding very National Treasure .”

“I assure you that it’s very real,” Killian says, gritting his teeth as he clambers to his feet and tries to limp toward the woods.

“Where are you going?” I ask, grabbing my bandage roll. “Your body just suffered a major trauma. You need to rest and warm up, and then we need to take you to a ranger station to get help from the authorities.”

I tug at my hood, my teeth chattering. The rain has stopped, but the shock of what I just witnessed sends chills through me.

“There’s no time to rest!” Killian’s gaze darts around the beach as he shivers from the wet cold. “Sharp and his underlings are probably already halfway here on their speedboats to make sure I’m dead and finish me off if I’m not. I need to get out of here, now.”

“His underlings ?” Ryder says, but I shake my head at my tour guide. If Killian’s life is really in danger—and seeing as how we just watched Sharp shove him off a cliff, it clearly is—we need to help him first and ask questions later.

“We’ll help you,” I assure Killian, switching off my flashlight. “We were looking to set up camp for the night anyway. You can camp with us, and we’ll help you figure out a plan for the morning.”

“We will?” Ryder asks, but Killian ignores him.

“Thank you, Emily,” he says, taking my hands in his. “You’re saving not only my life, but also the future of maritime archaeology as we know it.”

“Tad dramatic,” Ryder whispers, but he jogs to catch up to us and slings the archaeologist’s arm over his shoulder to help him along.

I loop my arm through Killian’s on his other side, and as we shuffle toward higher ground together, step by careful step, I realize that maybe the sign from Dad I was looking for was never going to come in the form of a bird or a butterfly or a sudden, gorgeous rainbow. Maybe it could come in the form of another person, in the form of a bright, brilliant archaeologist who desperately needs my help. Maybe everything that’s happened tonight is a sign from my dad that there’s still a way to honor him, to feel close to him.

All I have to do is be up for the adventure.

—

“It all started,” Killian says, staring into the fire, “in 1897.”

We hiked for an hour before pausing to set up camp for the night, stopping only when Killian was satisfied that we were well out of sight of the coastline. I dressed his wounds while Ryder got the campfire going—an arduous process that involved a stunning amount of curse words and at least one anguished cry of Why, God, why! —and cooked a simple dinner of freeze-dried chicken teriyaki over his camp stove. Killian also changed out of his soaking wet clothes and into dry ones he borrowed from Ryder, which is why the Harvard PhD is currently sporting camo hiking pants and an oversized sweatshirt that says 70% of people are stupid, i’m obviously with the other 40% in ugly block letters.

The fire snaps and crackles, and I curl up in my camp chair with my fuzzy blanket over my shoulders and a bowl of steaming chicken on my lap. Ryder, who insisted on setting up his tent and mine so I could rest and eat, sticks a tent pole into the ground and glances at Killian.

“What started in 1897?” he asks.

“The saga of the Evermore diamond,” Killian says dramatically, like he’s introducing a stage play.

Ryder nods. “Cool. You know, this is very Are You Afraid of the Dark? -y.”

“Sorry, am I afraid of the what?” Killian asks, sipping from a mug of hot coffee.

“The dark,” I explain. “It was a children’s show that was on in the nineties. A bunch of kids told scary stories around a campfire.”

“Okay, it wasn’t just any children’s show,” Ryder says, using a rubber mallet to hammer a tent stake into the ground. “It was an entire generation’s first introduction to horror, and it was a true masterp—”

He’s not wrong, but now is hardly the time for a stroll down memory lane.

“I think we should really focus on hearing what Killian has to say,” I interrupt politely. “Since, you know, someone just tried to murder him and all?”

Ryder rolls his eyes but nods at Killian. “Continue.”

“It all started in 1897,” the archaeologist repeats, “when the SS Explorer wrecked just off the coast of Isle Royale.”

He’d already told me about the wreck on the ferry, but he recounts some of the details now for Ryder—how the ship was struck by lightning and how the courageous Captain Sebastian Evermore perished in his efforts to save everyone else onboard. How he left behind beautiful, evocative letters to his wife Katherine, who, despite not being the seafaring sort, chartered a ship of her own to look for the Explorer after it disappeared.

“Sharp and I led the dive team that found those letters,” Killian says, raising his hands toward the fire to warm them. “When we got back to our offices at Harvard, I combed through every passage and was stunned to find references to a jewel. The letters made numerous mentions of a rare blue diamond that Evermore procured for Katherine during his travels, a gemstone the likes of which the modern world had never seen.”

“Shiiiiit,” Ryder says. “It must be quite the rock.”

“Shit indeed, old chap.” Killian nods and takes another sip of coffee. “I took the knowledge I gained from the letters to Sharp and the Smithsonian, and they dispatched us and our dive team to return to Isle Royale and search the ship for the stone. When we found it, we were to hand it over to the museum for historical preservation and public display. But as you saw when you stumbled upon us in the woods, Sharp had other plans. He intended to abscond with the diamond and sell it to a private merchant for his own profit.”

“Bastard,” Ryder whispers.

“Indeed,” Killian says. “I’d had suspicions about Sharp’s true intentions for months, but I didn’t want to believe that my mentor—a man I saw as a father figure, really—could throw away the principles we hold so dear for something as trivial as money.”

The hurt evident in Killian’s voice breaks my heart, and I can’t even begin to imagine the depths of Sharp’s betrayal.

“Of course you didn’t,” I tell him. “How crushing.”

Ryder thrusts another tent stake into the ground. “So, how much money are we talking, exactly? What’s Evermore’s diamond worth?”

“Well, it’s not technically Evermore’s diamond anymore, is it?” Killian asks. “Since he’s perished, you know, God rest his soul.”

He bows his head for a moment, holding his own private tribute for the fallen sea captain, and I do the same. After a minute, he takes another sip of his coffee and answers Ryder’s question.

“Millions,” he says, looking into the fire and watching the flames dance. “Millions upon millions.”

“Well then, I get why Sharp wanted it so badly,” Ryder says with a shrug. “Principles are cool, but money buys Ferraris.”

“Ryder!” I scold, tempted to toss my fork at him.

“What?” he asks. “I didn’t say I’d shove Sinclair off a cliff to get my hands on millions of dollars. But I can see why someone would. Besides,” he adds, swinging the mallet again and coming dangerously close to smashing his thumb with it, “money isn’t trivial. Only someone who’s never been broke would say that.”

“The point is,” Killian says, giving my tour guide a rather frustrated look, “that when I confronted Sharp with my suspicions, he turned on me. He attacked me with a trowel, we exchanged blows, and as you saw, he shoved me off the cliff to what he hoped would be my death. What would have been my death had you not saved me, Emily.” He extends an arm out to take my hand and presses a kiss to my fingers.

“No biggie,” I say, blushing as his lips touch my skin.

“Emily and Ryder , you mean,” Ryder says, watching Killian press his lips to my hand with a look of pure distaste.

“Sure thing, sport.” Killian adjusts his glasses, wincing at the cut near his temple. “Anyway, I need to get back to the Explorer first thing tomorrow. If I leave before dawn, I should get there in time—”

“You want to go back to the Explorer ?” I ask, stunned. “Where Sharp is? No. You need to get to a ranger station and call for help. That man tried to kill you! He’s incredibly dangerous!”

Killian shakes his head. “If the authorities get involved, they’ll interfere with the dive, and the Evermore diamond could be lost forever. That’s assuming, of course, that Sharp hasn’t already paid them off, which is not a risk I’m willing to take.” He reaches into the pocket of the tweed coat he laid out to dry and removes a square of paper, unfolding it to reveal a map of Isle Royale.

I lean forward to look at it, the fire warming my face.

“We’re here,” Killian says, pointing to a spot on the northwestern side of the island, “but I need to be here.” He slides his finger eastward, tapping a marked X just off the northern coast. “It’s a day’s travel on foot. If you’re willing to spare me some food and water for the journey, Emily, you’ll be helping me save the Evermore.”

“Emily and Ryder ,” Ryder says again, looking like he’d very much relish the chance to smack Killian with the rubber mallet.

But I’m too busy staring at the map, butterflies swirling in my stomach as I realize that Killian’s ship is only a short distance from the route Dad had planned to take across the island. This can’t just be pure coincidence, can it? I mean, I’m as science-minded as anyone, but the fact that Ryder and I are headed—or were headed, before we got lost—in the same direction where Killian needs to go is downright uncanny. Besides, we’re in the perfect position to help each other out. Killian has a legible map, which we desperately need, and we can offer him food, water, and company as he races to the Explorer to stop Sharp from stealing the diamond.

“We’ll go with you,” I volunteer, my heart thumping. “We’ll help get you to the ship. We’re going that way anyway.”

Ryder peeks at the map. “How is this not ruined from falling into the lake?”

Killian laughs like the question is a joke. “It’s waterproof, sport. Only a fool goes to an island without a waterproof map.”

I grab the mallet from Ryder’s hand wordlessly, tucking it under my camp chair lest he get any violent ideas.

“Hey, Emily,” Ryder says, not taking his eyes off Killian, “can you help me with something for a second? In there?”

He points to my tent, which is upright and tethered but clearly set up on uneven ground. Oh well. He did a pretty decent job, all things considered.

“I need help, uh, organizing all our weapons,” he says in a ridiculous stage whisper. “You know, the guns and the knives and extra-large canisters of bear spray.”

Trying not to roll my eyes at his complete lack of subtlety, I give Killian a reassuring smile and follow Ryder to the tent.

“What is this about?” I ask once we’re inside. “We don’t have any weapons.”

“Shhh,” he says, putting a finger to his lips. “We don’t need Sinclair to know that.”

To my surprise, it’s actually pretty cozy inside the tent. Ryder’s set up my sleeping pad and bag and placed my battery-operated lantern next to it, along with my toiletry kit and the roll of glow-in-the-dark toilet paper.

“Anyway, what do you think this secret meeting is about?” he asks, motioning wildly toward the campfire. I don’t bother pointing out that there’s nothing secretive about it. “Other than the fact that you just volunteered us to escort a total stranger to the site of a high-stakes jewel dispute!”

I’m trying to focus on what he’s saying, because his concerns are perfectly legitimate, but it’s made difficult by the fact that we’re enclosed in a space so tiny that he can barely sit up without his head brushing against the top of the tent. The lantern casts a warm glow on Ryder’s face, and he smells of pine needles and campfire, and honestly, sitting in this tent with him is the coziest I’ve been in a long, long time. It’s even cozier than my Monday night routine of lighting floating tea candles in the bathtub, turning on some Norah Jones, and soaking all my troubles away until my skin wrinkles. In fact, the only way the Monday night routine could hold a candle to this—no pun intended—is if I wasn’t in the bathtub alone.

“Edwards?” Ryder asks. “Are you listening?”

“Yes,” I say, working hard not to remember how warm and sturdy his body felt underneath mine when I landed on him after our downhill crash. After all, the fact that my body, given the choice, would have melded itself to Ryder’s strong frame when I laid on top of him probably has little to do with him and everything to do with the dry spell Jason and I went through before our eventual breakup. Of course I responded to the feel of his touch; the last time a man touched me was two months ago, and it was an elderly patient in the ER who threw up in my hair.

“I’m all ears,” I tell Ryder, pushing thoughts of his warm chest out of my mind. “What were you saying, again?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m saying that I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to partner up with Sinclair. I mean, he’s a stranger who you’ve known for all of one day.”

“ You’re a stranger I’ve known for all of one day,” I tell him. “And I partnered up with you.”

“Exactly my point!” Ryder says. “Did you forget that we were almost just impaled by a moose?”

I more distinctly remember the sight of his back in front of me, guarding me from danger, and the immensely stupid but also hotly heroic way he tried to sacrifice himself to the moose.

“Anyway,” he continues, “don’t you think Sinclair is a little bit, I don’t know, off?”

I shrug. It’s true that Killian’s mannerisms are different than Ryder’s—he, I imagine, has never said surf’s up in his life, but then again, neither have I. Besides, Killian made me feel comfortable and admired on the ferry, and I appreciate his steadfast devotion to doing the right thing even in the face of danger.

“I don’t know,” I tell Ryder. “I mean, wouldn’t you feel a little off if your mentor shoved you off a cliff? Besides, Killian’s an academic. Academics are a little quirky, you know?”

Ryder shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s…the guy wears a tweed coat, Edwards! Willingly. That’s super shady in my book. And he says he’s an archaeologist, but I don’t think that’s even a real job. It’s a job people have in movies, like pumpkin farmer or professional Christmas tree stylist.”

“Where exactly do you think pumpkins come from?” I ask, puzzled. “And of course archaeology is a real job. It’s the noble science of preserving history!”

“If you say so,” he grumbles. “But can we talk about the fact he has the name of a Bond villain?”

I roll my eyes. “Killian Sinclair is a perfectly nice name, Ryder Fleet .”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” I explain, “that your name sounds like the big-man-on-campus character in any nineties teen drama.”

He smiles like I’ve paid him a huge compliment. “Thank you.”

“Listen,” I tell him, my exhaustion mounting, “we have to help Killian. I have to help Killian.”

Ryder frowns. “Because of the diamond?”

“No.” I shake my head, trying to figure out a way to explain my thoughts to Ryder without sounding completely unhinged. “Because of my dad.”

I tug the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands and wrap my arms around myself. “Look, my dad loved adventure. And he gave up a whole life of it to take care of me and my sister. Not just because he was a single dad after my mom died, but because he was my dad.” I blink at the lantern, remembering the journals I’d found in his office after he died, how I’d opened them hoping to find something to comfort me and found a different truth instead.

“My dad wanted to travel and climb mountains and see the world, but all I wanted to do was stay home. He was brave, but I was terrified of everything. I still am.” I look everywhere but at Ryder, embarrassed to admit to a man fearless enough to jump onto a moving boat that I’m afraid of the whole damn world.

“I don’t ride roller coasters or drive over the speed limit or jaywalk even when the street looks empty,” I explain. “Because I know how quickly bad things can happen. One second you’re a happily married teacher with two little girls, and the next you’re sitting in a sterile doctor’s office getting diagnosed with invasive breast cancer. One second you’re a newspaper editor nearing retirement, finally free to chase adventure, and the next you’re coding on the floor of a secondhand bookstore.”

I swallow, wishing away the tears burning my eyes.

“One second you think you have all the time in the world to go backpacking with the guy who raised you,” I tell him, “and the next you’re tucking his urn inside your suitcase.”

“Emily,” Ryder says, but I shake my head. This is too important.

“My dad asked me to go to Isle Royale with him three times, and the first two times I said no. Because I was scared of the idea of going to a remote island where there’s no hospital and no 911. The third time he asked, I finally agreed because I knew it was important to him. But then he died. I didn’t go with him because I was scared of bad things happening, but then the worst thing happened anyway. I missed the chance to go on this trip with him because I was too much of a coward to take it, and since he died, I’ve been looking for a way to make things right.”

I sniffle and point toward where Killian sits by the campfire. “That’s my way to make things right. Dad would have jumped at the chance to do something as exciting as help save a priceless diamond from falling into the wrong hands. I have to do this for him.” I brush my eyes with the back of my sleeve. “Maybe this is the sign I’ve been waiting for. A chance to be part of a great adventure, to show my dad that I really am his daughter through and through.”

I don’t speak the other thought that’s burrowed its way into my head and heart: that if I can help Killian save the Evermore, I’ll be able to let go of some of the guilt I carry around inside me. I’ll be able to make meaning out of my bad choices, make my initial rejections of Dad’s invitation seem less like an act of cowardice and more like clear evidence that some things happen for a reason. I’ll be able to believe that Dad sent me this chance as a sign that he loves and forgives me, that he’s still out there somewhere having an endless grand adventure.

“You don’t have to help me,” I tell Ryder, still avoiding his gaze. “I know you didn’t sign up for this.”

“Emily.” His voice is soft, tender, bearing none of the bluntness you’d expect from a man who probably owns at least one garment of clothing with the words pain is weakness leaving the body on it.

“Emily,” Ryder says, “look at me.”

He reaches forward to take my hand, and so I do look at him—at this man with impossibly strong hands and ridiculous cheekbones and a reckless streak a mile wide but also, I suspect, a heart that’s bigger than he knows what to do with.

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” he says. “We’re in this together, like it or not.” He leans closer to me, so close that I could count the lines on his forehead and reach out and touch them if I wanted. “But Edwards?”

“Yes?” I say, a shiver running through me.

“Don’t ask me to trust a man who doesn’t carry his own pack.”