Page 92 of Hard Luck (Blackstone House)

We urge everyone to sign the petition to FREE LEVI SYKES!

The petition had been set up by a group called Save Our Planet, and the email address was one of the free ones available on the internet. The rest of the articles painted a gloomy picture of plastic pollution, habitat damage, fossil fuels, that kind of thing. Cole thought he might ask Dr. Blaylock if he’d heard of this group, if he could find a quiet moment to talk to the man.

The third link led to a dark-romance readers’ site. Apparently, Levi Sykes was a “thirst trap,” whatever that meant. Cole googled, then quickly regretted it. Women were lusting after a serial killer? There was something very, very wrong with that.

Cole heard movement behind him and quickly clicked back to an article about dolphins on the Save Our Planet website.

“Everything okay?” Bella asked. She had a habit of moving silently as a ghost.

“All good. The boys should surface any minute.”

Bella’s life was more of a mystery than ever, but he was determined to learn her secrets.

Very, very carefully.

CHAPTER 31

JEZEBEL

“This is Corky. He has a buoyancy disorder, so we have to glue weights to his shell to help him submerge,” Franklin Baptiste explained. “Occasionally, they fall off, and then he just bobs around on the surface.”

His assistant chipped in. “Like a cork.”

After the team finished the day’s survey, Dr. Blaylock decided to visit the old friend of his who ran a turtle sanctuary. Cole said he’d stay with the boat—he’d already been ashore to pick up provisions earlier—but I figured I might as well stretch my legs.

Baptiste was a slender Black man in his late fifties, weathered by the sun, and according to Dr. Blaylock, he’d dedicated most of his life to saving turtles. There were seven saltwater species in total, and six of them could be found in the Caribbean: leatherbacks, greens, loggerheads, Kemp’s ridleys, olive ridleys, and hawksbills like Corky.

His current assistant was a volunteer named Caro, whose face didn’t quite fit. She said she was a marine biologist following her dream to backpack around the world, but her fancy haircut and designer shorts suggestedshe was more of a luxury hotel kind of gal. And her twitchy manner, combined with the almost unconscious way she kept checking behind her, said she was hiding from something.

Or someone.

Probably a man, if the wide berth she gave the boys was any indication. She didn’t seem bothered by Blaylock or Baptiste, so I was going to guess at a younger man. A boyfriend? Fiancé? Husband? I had no intention of asking, but I did have another question for her, assuming she really was a marine biologist as she claimed.

A question that would have to wait until we were alone.

The two of them showed us around the sanctuary, which nestled in the dip on the north side of the heart-shaped island that had been aptly named Valentine Cay. There were four semi-open-air “pool rooms,” which had nothing to do with billiards and everything to do with breeding and rehabbing turtles. Hundreds of hatchlings would start their lives there, waiting to be released when they were larger and therefore less at risk from predators, while sick turtles received medical treatment and sometimes permanent room and board, depending on how well they recovered.

Beside the pool rooms was a stretch of beach I first assumed was a turtle graveyard, but which turned out to be a hatchery. Baptiste and his volunteers collected eggs from all over San Gallicano and reburied them at the sanctuary so they could hatch in safety. Other dilapidated buildings provided accommodation near the communal kitchen and dining room.

Baptiste invited us to stay for dinner, and when I texted Cole, he said he was happy to eat alone on the boat. So I volunteered to help with the prep, and my assumption that Caro would be the person in the kitchen proved correct. Baptiste took charge of the grill outside.

“How are you finding life at the turtle sanctuary?” I asked.

“Fine. Why?”

“Just curious. I’ve always wanted to travel, but I guess I’m worried that the expectation wouldn’t live up to the reality.” I nodded toward the window, which was more of a hole, seeing as there wasn’t any glass. “It sure seems idyllic here. Peaceful.”

No hit squads, for example.

“I’m glad I came. Do you enjoy life on the boat?”

“I’ve only been on theCrosswindfor a week, but it’s more relaxing than Vegas.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

I nodded. “You?”

“Damn, I forgot to chop the garlic. Could you do that?”

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