EBATE RAGED ON our drive home.

“No way.” Ben passed the guardhouse and turned onto the highway. “Chance is a total ass-clown. Why should we help him?”

“Because he can deliver Bonny’s cross,” I said. “He can actually take us to it.”

“Chance isn’t a map you can stuff down your pants,” Shelton argued from the backseat. “How would we spring him? That place is a fortress.”

“In the middle of a lake,” Ben added.

Hi poked his head between the front seats. “The staff will notice the minute he’s gone. Then Guzman will put two and two together and call Bolton. And the police.”

“We aren’t student council,” Ben said. “And you used your real name.”

No reminder necessary. If we helped Chance, I was almost certain to get caught. It was a desperation move.

“Why can’t Chance just run away?” Shelton asked.

“The only road out leads past that guardhouse,” I said. “Not that it matters, because he doesn’t have a car.”

“He’d be legitimately crazy to try the marshes on foot.” Hi shuddered. “They must be crawling with alligators. Might as well wrap yourself in bacon.”

“A fortress,” Shelton repeated. “We can’t get a car past the guardhouse, either.”

“Plus, how can we trust him?” Ben aimed the question at me. “He’s a whacko.”

“We did just leave an insane asylum,” Hi agreed. “For all we know, Chance spends his nights dancing naked with sock puppets, plotting to invade Canada.”

“I don’t think so.” I raised a hand to forestall Hi’s reply. “Chance is emotional, and definitely has issues, but he isn’t nuts. Just … upset. And maybe a little scared. You heard Guzman say he’s not a danger to anyone.”

“Then Chance is playing us.” Shelton changed tack. “He’s probably never even seen Bonny’s cross. Did you ask him to describe it?”

“There was no time.” Shoot.

“Guzman said we’re his first visitors.” Shelton wouldn’t let it go. “Chance would’ve said anything to get our help.”

We rode several miles in silence, reached James Island, and turned south onto Folly Road. Twenty-five minutes from home.

I made my choice. “Until we translate Bonny’s poem, the cross is our only lead. Chance holds all the cards. I’m willing to risk it.”

At first, no one responded.

“Suppose we decided to help Chance,” Ben said slowly. “How would we do it?”

It was the opening I needed.

“We do it our way,” I said. “No guardhouse, no bulky SUV.”

“Crap!” Hi was peering out the back window. “Crap crap crap!”

“What?” Hi’s melon head blocked my sight line. “Was there a wreck?”

“Red Studebaker! Three cars back.”

“Are you sure?” Ben punched the accelerator. “Is it following?”

As I turned, a red wagon darted into the left lane, passed two vehicles, and swerved back to avoid an oncoming truck. Horns blared in protest.

“It’s keeping pace!” Shelton was staring out the back window. “Not good!”

“How long has it been there?” Ben’s eyes shifted between his mirrors and the road. “Since the hospital?”

“No idea,” Hi said. “I just noticed.”

We crossed the Intracoastal Waterway and entered Folly Beach, then turned left on Ashley. Ben slowed as we passed through the busy residential area.

“The wagon’s following!” Shelton exclaimed.

Traffic thinned as we neared the northern edge of town. Ahead lay nothing but a long strip of beach houses and the crossing to Morris Island.

“Still there.” Hi’s voice was up an octave. “The windows are tinted. I can’t see inside.”

“There’s zero chance that car just happened to be headed this way,” Shelton said. “None.”

Water now bordered both sides of the narrow street. There were fewer than a dozen beach homes ahead, and beyond them only the unmarked pavement to our little enclave.

“Summer Place Lane is the last turnoff,” Ben said, as we drove past it.

I held my breath.

The Studebaker stuck to our tail.

Everyone groaned.

Ben pulled into the cul-de-sac at the end of the state road. The unlined blacktop leading to Morris Island began just ahead. A yellow sign warned: Private Property—No Outlet.

If the Studebaker followed, it could have only one destination.

Ben pulled onto Morris Island’s private drive, rolled a dozen yards, and stopped. “I want the driver to know we see him.”

Four sets of eyes watched the Studebaker roll into the cul-de-sac. Stop. Idle. Rev its engine.

Seconds ticked by. We hardly dared breathe.

Then the Studebaker circled back the way it came.

Sighs of relief filled the 4Runner.

“Did anyone get a look at the driver?” I asked.

Head shakes. The windows were too dark.

We drove the last mile in hushed uneasiness. Had the wagon been stalking us? My brain was too exhausted to focus.

At dawn, I’d dragged myself out of Charleston Harbor. Then I’d visited the bunker, haggled with Dr. Short, talked to Aunt Tempe, and faced Chance in a mental hospital. All on less than two hours’ sleep.

“Guys,” I yawned. “It’s time to call it a day.”

Coop greeted me at the door.

My luck was holding—Kit wasn’t home. Thank the Lord for small favors.

Collapsing into bed, I nearly whimpered with pleasure. I planned to sleep forever.

Then my cell exploded. I ignored the first three rings, pretended it wasn’t happening.

“Blaaaaargh!”

Reaching blindly, I scooped up the phone. Too late. The call rolled to voice mail. Shortly after, the message icon appeared: Aunt Tempe.

“Sorry I missed you, Tory. Ta suil agam go bhfuil tu i mbarr na slainte. That means, ‘I hope you’re in the best of health!’ I’ve actually been enjoying my assignment. After a rough start, vocabulary started coming back. I’m emailing you my translation now. Let me know if you need anything else, and please call more often. Oíche mhaith. Good night!”

As the message ended, an email appeared in my inbox.

I fully intended to open it.

My eyes just needed a short rest.