beside a folded note.
It wasn’t an apology.
It said, “Austin, when you read this, do not call to complain. Call your lawyer.”
At five-thirty, a taxi carried me toward the Port of Miami.
The sky remained dark, and early mist covered the road. For the first time in years, the only thing I needed to hold onto was my passport.
Chloe called first.
Then Austin.
Then Chloe again.
I let my phone vibrate on my lap as the bright white ship appeared ahead, like a floating city waiting to
