As for Cass, as far as I can tell, she spent all of yesterday and Wednesday repeatedly texting me.

You there?

Hello?

Why did Ethan go racing out after you?

Do you want to come by?

Should I come there?

Jackson’s not in custody is he?

Why aren’t you answering me?

Dammit, Syl, you’re pissing me off.

Sorry. Sorry. (Not that sorry, but dammit, call me or text back!)

WTF?

Hello?

Called work. You’re not in.

Where. The. Fuck. Are. You.

As soon as Damien is squared away on his eight A.M. call, I answer the ones from Cass:

Sorry! Sorry!

Was at the island. No service.

Everything is a mess with the island and with Jackson. But not scary. Not much. Not yet.

Gotta go. Work insane.

Her answer is almost instantaneous. Clearly, she’s been waiting for me to reply.

You sure?

Don’t go yet: Ethan. What was that all about?

I scowl as I remember that my dad dragged Ethan into my personal horror, a little fact that had gotten buried in the hell of sabotage and pending arrests.

Dad told him everything—really NOT happy.

Her answer is short and to the point.

Holy fuck.

U okay?

I hesitate, then answer honestly.

I am now. Mostly. Wasn’t before.

Seriously—gotta go.

Don’t worry about me. No new tats needed.

Promise.

Her reply—XXOO—makes me smile.

For Ethan, though, I can’t just send a text. But I also know that I can’t call him before ten. The company he works for—an online company that books travel packages—gave him a week off with pay and two weeks without so that he could get settled back in the States. For my brother, that means sleeping in.

To be honest, I’m okay with not talking to Ethan right now. My dad is the last person I want to be thinking of, and so I dive back into work with a vengeance. At nine, Damien gets on a conference call that is scheduled to last an hour, and Mila arrives at my desk.

She’s one of the floating secretaries, and I’d asked for her to be assigned to me today since I’m doing double duty as Damien’s assistant and as the Cortez project manager. I would have preferred leaving it all to Rachel, but she’s off until Saturday and is up in Monterey with her sister.

But even with Mila, I still can’t squeeze in a break because the press has gotten wind of the island sabotage and I’m fielding call after call, making statements about how we have everything under control, and that the leaked photo of the destruction entirely exaggerates the damage, and that the cleanup will in no way impact our projected opening date. And every time I say those words I want to strangle whoever the asshole is who caused that damage, took that photo, and fucked with my life.

But it’s not just the press. No, the investors are calling, too, and while I’ve been able to assuage most of them, another one has dropped out. And although my contact didn’t specifically say that he was shifting his dollars to Lost Tides, I can’t shake the feeling that’s the case. And that without planning it or wanting it, I’m now in a duel to the death with that damn resort in Santa Barbara.

And in the midst of all of that, I’m trying to actually do what I’ve been saying is already in progress—organize and oversee the cleanup of the island, which is scheduled to begin as soon as Ryan says that his team is finished investigating and documenting.

In other words, I’m both exhausted and frustrated. And, frankly, I’m still pissed off that someone is screwing with me.

Well, technically they’re screwing with the resort. But I’m taking everything related to Cortez pretty damn personally.

By eleven, Damien is on yet another conference call, this one scheduled for half an hour. Miraculously, it’s calm enough that I can hand the reins to Mila and run to the break room for coffee.

I pass Trent on the way in, and seeing him reminds me of the conversation I’d had with Jackson about Nathan Dean. I know that Dean is working on Trent’s new house, but if he doesn’t have any other projects going on, he might be interested in being Jackson’s second in case Jackson gets arrested. And, worse, convicted.

Just thinking about it makes me jumpy. Then again, I’m already jumpy. Every time the elevator opens I turn that way, expecting to see two detectives with handcuffs.

But I can’t just push it out of my head. I need to get this wrapped up. I need to know there is someone in place if the worst happens. I consider waiting to run it past Damien, but the bottom line is that I’m the project manager, and this is the kind of call the manager makes.