Before she leaves for St. John, Irene has some loose ends to take care of.

A death certificate issued by the Department of Vital Statistics of the British Virgin Islands arrives in the mail in an unmarked envelope. Is it authentic? It seems so, though Irene has no way of knowing for sure.

So, obviously, Paulette received her message. There’s no note, no invoice, no mention of a fee. Irene has assumed that Paulette is the one who pays to maintain the villa—taxes (do they have taxes in the Virgin Islands?), insurance, landscapers, repairs, et cetera—probably out of a fund that Russ or Todd Croft set up…with cash.

She takes the death certificate to Ed Sorley’s office and drops it off with the receptionist, then leaves before Ed appears with questions.

She withdraws eight thousand dollars from the account at Federal Republic, using the drive-through window. The cash and the postcards from M.L. go right into Irene’s suitcase.

At Lydia’s insistence, Irene puts an obituary in the Press-Citizen, and she phones her close friends and neighbors to invite them to the house for a memorial reception. She tells them that Russ was killed in a helicopter crash; lightning was the cause. He was down in the Virgin Islands for work. He’s been cremated and the ashes scattered. This is a small gathering so his friends can pay their respects.

“No food and no flowers,” Irene told them. “I’m taking some time away, leaving Monday. If you feel you must do something to honor his passing, you can donate to the Rotary Club scholarship fund. It always goes to some terrific kid who really needs it.”

Lydia arranges for the Linn Street Café to cater the reception and Irene is grateful. Under normal circumstances, she would insist on doing everything herself—but these aren’t normal circumstances. The people from the café will drop off sandwiches, quiche, salads, and urns of coffee. Irene chills wine and rolls her drinks trolley into the parlor. With so many people in the room, it will be too warm to light a fire and Irene will be so busy visiting that she won’t have time to tend it.

Irene is anxious about facing everyone. She doesn’t want to be the recipient of sympathy or to be asked any probing questions. She nearly succumbs to the temptation of taking an Ativan right before the reception begins. She has the prescription bottle in her hand, but the doorbell rings and Irene hurries downstairs.

It’s Lydia, attended by Brandon the barista, who looks far more distinguished out of his leather apron. He’s holding Lydia’s hand, and with his other hand he offers Irene a platter of cookies.

“Homemade,” he says. “Lemongrass sugar.”

Irene tries out a smile. Lydia looks radiant. She and Brandon are delirious with infatuation, and Irene is, of course, happy for her friend. Brandon and Lydia take charge of setting out the food and cups for coffee and filling buckets with ice, leaving Irene idle to steep in her dread and count the minutes until she boards the plane.

The doorbell rings again. Irene mentally pulls herself up by her bootstraps. Compared to what she’s been through already, this is nothing. This is easy.

And for a while, it’s not so bad. The Kinseys arrive, followed by the Dunns; Ed Sorley and his wife, Anita; Dot, the nurse from Brown Deer; and some of the neighbors. Nearly everyone from the magazine attends, including Irene’s boss, Joseph Feeney, Mavis Key, and the receptionist, Jayne, who brings her newly retired husband, Rooney. Rooney is something of a blunderbuss. He’s always the first to get drunk and obnoxious at the holiday party. He speaks without thinking, he’s a know-it-all; honestly, Irene can’t stand him. Thankfully, he leaves Jayne to gush out the condolences.

“I’m so sorry, Irene, none of us had any idea! But it was unusual for you to be out for an entire week without any notice. Of course, once we learned that Milly had passed, it all made sense…none of us knew that Russ…I mean, you’ve had such a double whammy!”

A little while later, Irene notices Rooney pouring himself a scotch at the drinks trolley. She needs to find Lydia and tell her to keep an eye on him. But she’s too busy. She has to spend time with everyone, nodding her head and lying by omission.

Why is it the people you’d like to leave the party first are always the last to go? The party has thinned out to just Irene, Lydia and Brandon, Dot, Ed and Anita Sorley, and Jayne and Rooney. Irene finally allows herself to eat something—a lemongrass sugar cookie—and Brandon, ever the barista, steeps her a tea that he thinks will complement the cookie. Irene nearly laughs at the absurdity of the notion. It’s a cookie, Brandon, she wants to say. Irene hasn’t tasted anything since Russ died—except the fish that Huck grilled. That had been delicious.

Her thoughts are interrupted by Rooney, who raises his voice above the others and says, “Russ worked for a hedge fund, right? You’re aware, I assume, that the Virgin Islands were recently added to a blacklist of tax havens by the EU? What kind of business was Russ involved in? Are you sure it was aboveboard?”

Brandon, possibly attempting to head Rooney away from the topic, makes things worse. “What does that mean, a blacklist of tax havens?” He looks around the room and shrugs. “I can explain the difference between a latte and an Americano, but tax havens confound me.”

“What does it mean?” Rooney asks in a way that makes it clear he isn’t sure what it means. He’s sitting in the velvet-upholstered bergère chair, holding court now. “It means they conduct business without obeying the tax code. We’re talking money-laundering, numbered accounts at banks in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands, shell companies, dark money, terrorists, drug dealers, human traffickers…”

Irene shoots a look at Ed Sorley. The Cayman Islands?

Jayne emits a nervous laugh. “Rooney, stop,” she says. “You knew Russ. He was…well, he was the nicest man in the world is what he was.”

“I second that,” Dot says.

“Sometimes it’s the nice guys who are the worst criminals,” Rooney says. “Because they’re the ones you’d least suspect of anything.”

Irene stands up. “I’m feeling a little worn out,” she says, and everyone takes the hint.

Monday afternoon, Irene’s ferry pulls in among the powerboats and catamarans moored in Cruz Bay, and Irene scans the crescent of white sand that’s home to a string of open-air restaurants backed by palm trees. She feels like she can breathe again. It’s bizarre that the place her husband conducted his wild and massive deception has become her refuge. Irene doesn’t want to overthink this and she doesn’t want to fight it. She’s now experiencing the emotions one should feel upon arriving on St. John: anticipation and joy.

Both of her boys are here, and her grandson. It feels like an embarrassment of riches, all of them choosing to be together this time, choosing to be in the paradise Russ unwittingly brought them to.

Cash had texted Irene the night before to let her know that today was his first day as a crew member aboard Treasure Island. He thought he’d be back in time to pick Irene up, but if not, he’d send Baker. However, when Irene steps off the ferry and grabs her luggage—two rolling suitcases that contain sundresses, sandals, plenty of bathing suits, and some old fishing shirts that she used to wear out on Clark Lake—she doesn’t see either Cash or Baker, and she’s annoyed. Have they forgotten her?

“Irene!”

Irene looks around. Huck is in the parking lot, standing in front of his truck. Irene can’t believe the feeling that overcomes her. She ducks her head so he can’t see her smiling.

Get a grip! she thinks. It’s just Huck. “Oh, hi,” she says. She grabs her luggage and starts rolling it over to his truck. “Are you here for me?”

“Baker took Floyd to the Gifft Hill School and Maia wanted to show them around,” Huck says. “So that left me free to pick you up.”

Things are really happening, then—Cash started a job, Floyd will go to school. Irene opens the passenger door to Huck’s truck.

“Wait a minute,” Huck says. He strides over and puts his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the eye. “It’s good to see you, Angler Cupcake. I’m glad you’re back.”

Irene feels herself reddening. “Stop it,” she says. “You’re embarrassing me.”

On the way to Russ’s villa, Irene thinks it best to fill Huck in on what’s been happening.

She says, “I’ve had a visit from the FBI.”

Huck says, “I’m afraid that might have been my fault. I had a call from an agent down here right after you left to let me know that they’d opened an investigation into the crash—”

“Yes,” Irene says. “The boys and I received calls as well—”

“And then I contacted Agent Vasco myself last week to let her know that…well, we found money in Rosie’s room.”

Irene gazes out the window, trying to focus on the views. The vista of the neighboring islands across the turquoise water is nothing short of spectacular. Less than a month ago, Irene made the same drive but she saw nothing, noticed nothing.

Money. “How much?”

“A lot.”

“How much, Huck?”

“A hundred and twenty-five grand.”

A hundred and twenty-five grand. A hot, nauseating panic rises in Irene’s chest. “In cash, you mean?”

“Yes, in cash. Bricks of it.”

“And they took it?”

“They took it,” Huck says. He lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out his window. “And I heard they paid a visit to Welcome to Paradise Real Estate.”

“Dear God,” Irene says. “Paulette?”

“She left the island. Her husband and her son too.”

“She left the island?” Irene says. “I called and left a message asking for a certified copy of the death certificate and she never returned my call, but then, voilà, a copy came in the mail.”

“Well, that’s good,” Huck says. “Right?”

“I thought Russ was still alive somewhere,” Irene says. “I had these dreams where he was so…vivid, so present, so whole. He was there, three-dimensionally, in my mind. And when I’d wake up, I’d think, He made it out of that helicopter and Croft plucked him out of the sea and whisked him away.” Irene is mortified when her voice breaks. “I thought he was just hiding somewhere. I thought I’d see him again.”

Huck takes Irene’s hand. Irene looks down to see their fingers intertwined, her hand slender and wrinkled and white, his large and wrinkled and brown.

“The FBI didn’t find anything in Iowa,” Irene says. “Did they find anything in your house, other than the money? Did they find anything in Rosie’s room?”

“Not that I know of,” Huck says. “I had Ayers go through Rosie’s things while Maia was at school. Ayers was the one who discovered the money.”

“But not anything else?” Irene says. “No clues? No…explanations?”

“No,” Huck says.

“And we can trust Ayers?” Irene asks. “We don’t think she knows more than she’s saying, do we?”

“I trust her,” Huck says. “She’s just as in the dark as you and me.”

“But she was Rosie’s best friend,” Irene says. “Her confidante. Surely…”

“Where the Invisible Man was concerned, Rosie was a brick wall,” Huck says. He signals to turn up Lovers Lane. “Sorry—I mean Russ.”

“It’s okay,” Irene says. “The nickname fits.”

When they get to the house, they see both Jeeps are gone; the boys must still be out. Huck brings Irene’s luggage up the stone steps to the deck.

“Will you stay for a beer?” Irene asks.

“I should go collect Maia,” he says.

“No, of course,” Irene says. She needs to shower and unpack. The news of the FBI, the cash, and Paulette leaving the island has Irene rattled. “Are you worried, Huck? Does it feel like the fire is getting a little close?”

“I’m concerned,” Huck says. “I want to remain informed and aware, but I’m not going to let this whole mess control me. This has nothing to do with us, AC. I have a clean conscience and I know you do as well.”

“I do,” Irene says.

“I’ll tell you if we ever have reason to worry,” he says. “Will you trust me on that?”

Irene nods. It’s remarkable how much better she feels knowing Huck’s on her side. If he’s not going to worry, she isn’t either.

“I’ll take a rain check on the beer,” Huck says. “I promise. And hey, we have an afternoon charter on Wednesday. Two couples from Wichita.”

“So you haven’t had second thoughts?” Irene says. “You still want me to be your first mate?”

“I need you to be my first mate,” Huck says.

“I’ll come on Wednesday and we’ll see how I do, okay? But I promise I won’t be offended if you want to hire some young guy.” She winks at him. “Or young woman.”

“Agent Vasco was quite attractive,” Huck says. “I nearly offered her the job.”

“Oh, was she,” Irene says. She sounds jealous to her own ears.

“Are you jealous?” Huck asks.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” Irene says.

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“Well, maybe it worked,” Irene says. She’s afraid to look Huck in the eye so she busies herself by rolling her suitcases over to the slider. “Thank you for coming to get me. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

Huck smiles at her, shaking his head, and she thinks, What? What?

She shoos him away and he heads down the stairs. Only once he’s gone can Irene get a clear breath. She is so keyed up when he’s around, both agitated and happy.

Agent Vasco was attractive. Bah!

Before she goes into the house, Irene stands at the stone wall and inhales the sight of the sea and the verdant island mountains and the lush hillside below. It’s the prettiest place she’s ever seen, but what is she doing here? It’s truly insane, this decision to move down to work on a fishing boat. Has she lost her mind?

Well, yes, Irene thinks. She probably has. And good for her.