Page 27 of Ship Outta Luck

Notes scrawl across a page torn from a book, and a portrait of some old guy in a crown stands out in stark relief against the chaos. Exclamation marks, circles. Arrows on maps, Post-its written in some kind of code.

What kind of researcher writes in code then puts it on her fridge for anyone to find? I squint at the papers, suspicion gnawing at me, tightening my ribs.

I trail one finger across a neon orange Post-it.

None of this makes sense. I glance back at the tide charts. They aren’t from this year. Or last.

Five hundred years ago?

What kind of woman works with Russian smugglers and uses tide and current maps from four centuries ago?

My gut sinks.

Maybe the DEA analysts were wrong about how much she knows. Maybe I was wrong about her working with the cartel. Maybe this is all a damn waste of time.

I should have made contact with Charlie earlier.

Something about this, about June, is off.

I swipe a spreadsheet and currents map, folding and tucking them into the cargo pocket of my pants. The picture and textbook page come next, along with a list marked ‘fishing spots’ in an untidy scrawl.

I shift a few things to hide the blank spaces and refocus.

Sandwiches. I’ll distract her with food, with questions, with whatever alcohol is lingering in her system.

She’ll never notice something’s missing.

Digging into the fridge, I locate the deli meat and cheese, along with a half-empty jar of grape jelly. It isn’t hard to find, considering the woman seems to live off Goldfish, popcorn, and cheese sticks.

I shut the fridge with a foot and lay out the supplies. Untwisting the bread bag, I line everything up precisely, making two of each sandwich, using up the rest of her food. The bedroom door closes just as I’m about to grab the Goldfish from the pantry.

Looking up, my whole body goes tense with anticipation.

Time for some answers.

June’s dressed in a short, flowery dress and sneakers. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders, grazing the tops of her breasts.

And grazing the butt of the black shotgun pressed to one shoulder.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

JUNE

He knew where I live.It’s all I can think, the thought a drumbeat in my head, almost as loud as my heart.

“Who are you?” Steadying my aim, I wedge the butt of the gun in my shoulder. Just as my dad taught me. Just as I perfected over the months after the incident.

Dean raises his hands, his narrowed eyes slipping into a relaxed, amused expression.

He thinks I won’t do it.

I click the safety off, slightly gratified by the way his throat bobs.

“I said, who are you?” The question goes higher, and I will myself to calm down.

“I am who I said I am. My name is Dean Evans. Like you guessed, I am an ex-Marine. I’m currently working with the DEA. Why don’t you put the gun down, babe?” he asks, stepping forward.

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