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Eve’s dark eyes softened, and she leaned in closer.

“The reason that my aunt goes off the grid regularly is because of what happened to her after they found La Venganza . They camped out on her front yard. Followed her to the store and when she ran errands. Late night talk show hosts turned her queerness into a joke, turned her life into a joke. There are so many times when I just wish…”

Eve trailed off, and I found myself stunned by the barely restrained anguish in her voice. I’d seen her pissed off, seen her frustrated. Seen her flirtatious, even.

Not this. A protective instinct rose in me, to pull her close and keep her safe from every bad feeling.

“Eve…if I could go back in time and change it, I would,” I pleaded. “You don’t have to trust me or even like me, but please believe me when I say that. I’d undo every awful thing the media did to her. She didn’t deserve it. No one deserves it.”

Her eyes darted across my face, searching. “But you can’t change what happened. And you’re still here.”

My stomach clenched so hard I worried I might dry heave. “I’m…I’m still here, yes. And I can’t quit. Not yet.”

She shoved her hands into her pockets and nodded. “Thought so.”

“Eve, don’t—” I started.

But she’d already turned on her heel and was walking back down the sidewalk, away from me.

…

A summer storm was rolling in across the foothills, turning the morning sky a bruised-looking purple. It was just past dawn, and I sat huddled and miserable on my motel’s tiny balcony, watching the clouds.

I tugged the blanket tighter around my shoulders. A strong gust of wind whipped past, releasing my hair from its tie. I made a pitiful attempt to gather the thick strands into some semblance of order but was too tired to make any real effort.

I had five days before my flight back to New York and all the motivation I’d ever need to write the story that had evaded my best efforts to capture it. But Monty didn’t want to talk to me. Using the Blackburn Diamonds to get to her was apparently a bust.

And all I’d succeeded in doing yesterday was making Eve trust and like me even less than she had before.

I picked up the picture of Monty and Ruby that I’d printed out, the famous one of them on the beach after they’d recovered La Venganza . Smoothing my thumb between their faces, I thought about how brave they’d been. How brave Priscilla had been.

How brave my own mother had been—an artist who never feared trying something new, even when she failed.

A romantic bookworm, who’d stay up all night reading when a story inspired her.

Who encouraged me and Daphne to stay curious, to stay hopeful, to say no to every box and binary society presented to us.

She reminded me of Monty and Ruby and Priscilla, too.

And Eve.

I sniffled, shoving my wild hair back from my face.

Daphne was right—I was stressed and overworked and uninspired.

But that had been my perpetual state ever since Mom died.

Indulging in joyful whimsy sounded great and all, but someone needed to stay on top of the bills and school lunches and birthday party invitations.

Someone needed to be the responsible one.

Now, here I was, with no story, a pissed-off editor, and no clue of what to do next.

I’d flung myself out here the way my dad flung himself into everything that he did, with no planning but all purpose.

I’d eaten at strange rest stops, and slept in my car, and perfected the art of eating french fries while driving.

And Monty Montana was going to stay hidden.

I wasn’t even that upset about it anymore, not with Eve’s very obvious anguish about what happened to her aunt still floating through my thoughts.

Would those same paparazzi and tabloids come out of the woodwork if I put Monty back in the spotlight again…

regardless of how well-intentioned my story might be?

My subconscious certainly thought so. I’d managed to write a single paragraph last night that I knew, as soon as I finished, could never be published: “I’m currently chasing a woman who refuses to be captured—and prefers it that way.

She’s a mystery on purpose, and why does every mystery need to be solved?

Why do I need Monty to tie up her magnificent life for me in a neat and tidy bow to be consumed by readers who will forget about her hours later? ”

My phone buzzed in my lap, and I half expected to see one of Greg’s unhinged text messages. But it wasn’t Greg—it was Kristi, my fact checker.

“You’re calling early,” I said when I answered. “Everything okay?”

“I had a little breakthrough this morning and just sent something extremely interesting to your email. Can you go check it?”

I rose from the balcony and walked back into the room, waking up my laptop and reading my messages.

“Priscilla Blackburn was involved in an auxiliary club,” Kristi was saying.

“One of those sewing circles where wealthy white women discussed charity projects, garden parties, that kind of thing. Though recent history has shown that, given the opportunity, many of these groups were used to shield some fairly radical activism for the time period.”

I clicked on the image Kristi had sent, a grainy photo of two women dressed in clothing from the time period: voluminous skirts, restrictive corsets, lace-covered sleeves. They sat, stern-faced, in a drawing room. Beneath it read: Priscilla Blackburn and Adeline Grant, 1898.

That sweeping wildflower feeling returned.

“Who was Adeline Grant?” I asked softly.

“They ran that auxiliary club together and were known to be very close friends, from school age onward. It’s a bit of a bizarre tragedy, though. Adeline vanished from New York City on the very same day as Priscilla. And like Priscilla, she never appears again in any historical records.”

Monty and Ruby. Harry and Eugene. Priscilla…and Adeline.

Adeline Grant.

The missing piece.