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With my navy cap low on my forehead and my eyes hidden behind my aviator sunglasses, I hope I can avoid detection today—from Greg Masters, fawning women, everyone and anyone waiting for the Anderson screwup to fail. I straighten the sleeves of my black shirt and smooth my damp palms over my dark jeans.

Unassuming. A stranger. Not Rex-a-Million.

Run away.The voice chants in my head. What if I just ran away from it all? Disappeared off the boat today, never to resurface?

But my family.I can’t bring more sadness to them, after I caused so much of it. Heck, that’s why I became the jokester. To make them laugh. To give them some joy back.

I scoff. Some jokester I am. They aren’t laughing these days.

I shake my head at the nonsense and pull out my phone, needing to do one more thing before I escape.

Rex

Busy today with appointments. You staying on the boat, right?

Elias told her to remain aboard. Can’t take any chances with The Association still out there.

Her response comes back a minute later.

Bree

Yep. Don’t worry about me. I might do some reading. Do your thing. I’ll be fine.

Satisfied with her response—Bree isn’t the extroverted, adventurous type to begin with, and we have the best security team on board—I jam my phone back into my pocket and slip out of the stateroom.

My footfalls are quiet, my head dipped low as I pass by passengers staggering out of their rooms, bleary-eyed and clearly in search of strong coffee. Room service staff roll carts filled with silver-dome-covered plates, the smell of poached eggs and bacon wafting through the air.

I hasten my steps, eager to get to deck three to disembark, when a large shadow falls in front of me before I enter the nearest stairwell.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, pulling the bill of my cap lower.

The shadow doesn’t move.

Fucking asshole.I pivot to the right, not bothering to look up, and the shadow moves with me.

Then I step to the left, and the fucker does the same.

My already thin patience runs empty, and just as I’m about to give the person in front of me a piece of my mind—

“This looks much worse than I thought.”

Then comes the sound of the damn lighter.

Fucking Elias Kent.

Chapter Twenty-One

Laura

Sorry, the authorities couldn’t locate your camera. They said the trail’s cold.

My chest caves atthe text from the concierge. It’s been almost a week since our phone call and the initial shock at the events in Pyrgos Village has passed. People finally stopped finger pointing and whispering whenever I stepped into a room.

Thank God.

From what I’ve read online, it appears to be a botched robbery.

More importantly, the press, which I’m sure, courtesy of the Anderson family’s influence, is quick to point out the autopsy of the motorcyclist showed the bullet killed the man.