A second later, a male voice fills her little office.

“This is a message for James Wolfe. I’m Michael Halcomb, partner at Halcomb & Mallory and Gertrude O’Malley’s new estate attorney. I need to talk to you about her attempted deeding of Rabbit Island to you.”

I sit there a moment, absorbing the echo of my name; resisting the urge to grab the phone. Then I pluck it off her desk. “What do you mean attempted?”

I can tell the lawyer is surprised to hear my voice. I’ve got a deep voice. Distinctive. Shit… It’s fucking infamous.

I’m fucking infamous.

Bet the bastard was hoping he wouldn’t reach me.

“Mr. Wolfe?” His voice sounds tinny.

“You mentioned a problem?”

He clears his throat. “Er…yes sir. I’m glad I reached you. There’s an issue with the deeding of the island. Nothing insurmountable—”

“Spit it out.”

“I’m afraid the attorney in charge of Ms. O’Malley’s final arrangements was a junior colleague. He was only on the—”

“Spit. It. Out.”

“The island can’t be deeded to you, despite your being temporarily in charge of her trust. In the event that no family member is helping govern the trust, conservation land like the island can’t pass hands. For ownership of the island to change hands posthumously, it’s got to be done via Gertrude’s family. There’s only one living descendant, according to my research. A granddaughter—”

“Sarah Ryder.” A redhead. Freckled and pale, from the look of her in the photo on Trudie’s desk. Despite some kind of family feud, Trudie kept track of the girl. Subscribed to the Boston Journal online. Even had me program Google to send Trudie an e-mail alert when it picked up the name “Sarah L. Ryder.”

In the last few weeks of Trudie’s life, I corresponded two times with her oncologist via e-mail. Which is how I found that little, red-haired Sarah lost her job. About a week before Trudie passed, Sarah e-mailed, wanting to meet up. Trudie asked me not to reply.

“I waited too late,” she told me.

Why hadn’t Sarah reached out to her until now? I did some checking around, had Bob call up a mutual friend from our Bridgewater days, and found out little miss Sarah was looking for a job. Looking unsuccessfully. Applications out all over Boston.

So…a moneygrubber.

“You’re right,” Halcomb says. “Her name is Sarah. She needs to take a position with the trust. She can then decide if the island should be sold to an individual. You. You’ll need to convince Sarah to get involved, and convince her to sell the island to you.”

“I hope your office intends to handle this. It’s your fuck-up. And I don’t leave the island. Ever.” That’s a stretch, but I’m damn sure not going to this bastard’s office.

“I can send someone out to help you—”

“Not someone. You.”

“Ah, well, I—”

“If you and I have to meet for any reason, you come to me. I don’t want to deal with an intern or some fucking first-year lackey.”

I enjoy his silence. Nervous silence.

He clears his throat again. The fucking pussy.

“Er…yes. Of course. Just tell me when and…well,” he chuckles, “I don’t need to ask where. Gertrude paid my firm well to be…considerate of her preferences. Her solitude. Yours as well, by extension, sir. But there won’t be any paperwork to sign, no business between you and me, until you contact Sarah.”

Fuck.

RED

I arrive in Charleston in mid-morning. There are so many more trees than I remembered, many of them adorned with beautiful gray moss. Water spreads out around the city like an obsidian plate of glass. The historic homes—Federal style, Queen Anne, Italianate—are painted in pastels, and arranged in neat rows along lamp-lit sidewalks. The day is overcast, with dark gray clouds like rain, so some of the lamps are already glowing.

I drive around, reacquainting myself with iron-gated cemeteries and sprawling plantation homes. Finally, about 3:30 p.m., I stop at a little local produce store and ask about the Briar Bay boat dock, which I’m told is in a cove near Dill Creek, on the James Island side of Charleston Harbor. I head across the Ashley River, find a shrimp shack, and spend the next hour and a half eating and obsessively checking my phone. I fire off a quick e-mail telling Gertrude I’ll be the girl with long, red hair, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt.

When I got the call from my bank confirming that an anonymous donor had infused my account with new life, I renewed the lease on my apartment, but I didn’t have time to buy new furniture or clothes, so here I am, in my slightly baggy jeans and a Northwestern shirt I’ve had since...spring my junior year. So yeah, meeting grandma for the first time in a six-year-old t-shirt.

I refresh my red lipstick about twelve times before leaving the shrimp shack, then point my Camry toward the water.

The clouds are darker now, hanging low over the harbor. Gulls crisscross the sky, moving in frenzied zigzags. I follow the instructions of my GPS and pull into a parking lot that reaches to the water’s edge, where there’s a long, wooden dock lined with boat slips. Mossy trees shade the deck and walkway, hanging over boats big and small. I run my eyes over the larger boats, wondering which one is my grandmother’s.

I pull my phone out of my cup holder and shoot off an e-mail. “I’m here.” Then I grab my duffel bag and purse, lean against my hood, and wait.

What will Gertrude look like? I watch the docked boats, serviced by fluttering figures, heads bowed against a swift but muggy breeze.

There’s a luxury boat, maybe fifty feet, with a pelican’s post on the top. I wonder if she’s wealthy enough to own that. I guess she probably is. I cast my gaze to a smaller boat, this one blue and white, with the name Dirty Sammy scrawled across its back in cursive.

I’m holding my breath when my phone vibrates. ‘The boat name is Fog.’

My heart hammers. My mouth feels dry. I tuck my hair behind my ears, adjust the bag on my shoulder, and start toward the dock. The big, square wood deck adjoining the parking lot is dotted with a few benches and an abandoned fishing pole. I take a left onto one of the long planks that runs parallel with the shoreline. Boats bob all along it, settled into little, wood-framed slots.

I walk slowly, glancing at each boat for Fog. Double Trouble, Choppy Cass, Stupid Does, Great Escape. I think the big beige and crimson sailboat a few slots down looks like a Fog, and am disappointed to find its name is Rammer Jammer. I pass a few smaller boats, the kind you might ski behind, as well as a massive yacht that looks almost too big for its allotted docking space.

The wind blows my hair across my cheeks. A few strands stick to my lips.

I’m pushing at them with my fingertips, glancing down the dock for a woman with gray hair and my mother’s mouth, when I see him: a tall man blocking my path. He’s wearing a pair of loose, charcoal slacks and a battered-looking white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, so I can see his muscled forearms. His face is partially shaded by a baseball cap. And even so, I know he’s here for me.

My cheeks heat up, as if I’ve been sunburned; my stomach aches; and, swear to god, my pussy actually clenches like it’s saying “hey Hottie, right here.”

Then he takes a slow stride toward me, lifts his head a little, and I see his face.

Holy fucking wow. This man is brutally handsome.

He must be a fucking pirate. A short, scruffy black beard covers his face, begging for my fingers. His jaw is hard, as if maybe he’s clenching it. He’s got Elvis Pressley cheekbones, and his mouth, which twists when he sees me, looks made for naughty words. And his eyes. Holy shit, those eyes. They’re dark brown—intense and long-lashed—but that’s not what gets me. There’s something about them… About the way they sweep me up and down, as if assessing. Does he find me wanting? Find me satisfactory?