The Last Train to Key West - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,47

used to throw their wealth around as though by virtue of it they are entitled to having the world spread before them. Sam is simply direct, lacking in pretense or artifice, and I watch, fascinated by the skill.

I admire the power in his job, the ability to command respect, to ask questions people answer. It gives him a quiet confidence I can’t help but envy.

It’s late in the afternoon when we finish up at Camp Five, and suddenly, the storm everyone has spoken of seems to make an appearance, the sky darkening, a raindrop falling on my dress. Then another. And another.

“Come on.” Sam tugs on my hand, pulling me away from the camp and the men with ruined dreams in their eyes.

Water falls from the sky in heavy waves, and we run toward Sam’s car parked in the distance.

Thirteen

It doesn’t rain for long, but it seems like an eternity. I desperately need to stretch my legs, to get fresh air in my lungs after the misery of the camps we visited today. Beside me in the car, Sam seems restless, too, tapping a silent melody on his thigh with his fingers, a cigarette in his free hand. I shake my head when he offers me a smoke, my gaze trained out the window.

We wait outside the Sunrise Inn, and when the rain finally breaks, we walk to the little beach I explored earlier. I edge toward the shore, away from Sam, the water covering my feet as I struggle to steady my breathing, to replace the stagnant, sticky heat that has taken residence there since we visited the camps.

Even if I do find him, the truth is inescapable now—the brother I once knew and loved is lost to me forever.

No one is coming to save me from this mess.

Sam hangs back, but his gaze weighs on me between drags of his cigarette, his attention unraveling me more and more. What does he see when he stares at me? What did all of those men see?

A spoiled girl with no sense of the real world?

I have never felt less sure of myself than I do at this moment. All of the things that made me me—my family, my friendships, our wealth, my plans for the future—have been taken away.

I was so eager to leave New York, to escape the prying eyes and whispers, that it never occurred to me I’d miss it. At least you can get lost in the commotion of the city. I’ve never felt more invisible than in a crowd of people, but out here surrounded by this stark beauty, just me and Sam, I am stripped bare.

Now that the rain has ended, the weather has changed, and it’s practically peaceful. The clouds appear as though they’re tinged in a coppery glow. For all they worried about an impending storm at the camp, now that the rain has passed, the weather couldn’t be calmer or more beautiful.

“Have you ever seen clouds that color?” I ask. “It’s almost pretty here.”

Sam shrugs. “You see beaches, I see smugglers in the mangroves.”

“I doubt I’ve ever met anyone less whimsical than you in my life.”

“I could say the opposite of you, I suppose,” he counters.

“Life’s hard enough as it is,” I reply. “It’s easier to go through it with a smile.”

“It’s not just the smiles, though, is it?” he asks. “You live on the edge and you like it.”

I laugh because when he says it, it seems terribly glamorous, but the reality is that being a woman—even a reckless one—is fairly mundane. Something I’ve learned quickly since my family’s fall from grace. The heroics are often saved for men who wager big and risk it all, rather than the women left to care for them and pick up the pieces when they’ve returned.

“And what do you call chasing criminals all day, if not taking risks? I’m not the only one who enjoys life on the edge.”

He inclines his head as though subtly acknowledging the truth behind my statement. “No, I suppose not. Although, to put a finer point on it, you could say I’m more inclined to stop trouble than cause it.”

“That sounds dreadfully boring.”

“You’d be surprised.” He steps closer, as though he’s sharing a secret with me. “It starts with a target. Someone whose criminal behavior tests the bounds of lawful society. It can be wantonness, or recklessness, or general wickedness.”

“General wickedness doesn’t sound boring at all,” I tease, batting my eyelashes at him, sinking into this moment, this delicious