8. Caro

"How do you put up with her?" I asked Knox.

I might have been a good teacher—I'd taken over training the volunteers last summer so Franklin could focus on the hatchlings—but Luna Maara was the worst student I'd ever encountered. Probably because she didn't want to learn. She'd already broken a nail this morning, and you'd think it was her femur from the way she complained.

"Money," Knox said. "That's how I put up with her. Is there somewhere on this island that sells Tylenol? I only brought one bottle, and I'm gonna need more."

"That bad, huh?"

"That bad."

"The general store near the harbour stocks generic acetaminophen. Franklin drives over there in the truck a couple of times a week if you want anything. Handcuffs, a gag, whatever."

"BDSM isn't my jam, but thanks for the offer."

Shit. That wasn't what I'd meant at all, but I saw how it could be construed that way. I also saw that Knox was dangerous, and not just Navy SEAL dangerous. No, he was heart-stoppingly dangerous.

"You have a dirty mind."

"I tried cleaning up my act once. Worst three days of my life." Knox nodded toward Luna. "And there's someone else who isn't great at cleaning."

An hour ago, I'd shown Luna how to clean the pools where the older turtles lived—each day, we skimmed any faeces and uneaten food out of the water with a net. Once a week, we changed a quarter of the water to prevent ammonia buildup, and once a month, we cleaned the filters, the rocks, and the walls of the tanks. It never ended. Other jobs were dependent on the time of year, with nesting season being the busiest. And this year, it seemed, I'd have a pop star to babysit as well as all the work to do. Luna was still by the first pool, mindlessly sweeping the net back and forth as she stared at the beach.

"Typical rich kid." I called her a kid, even though she was only four years younger than me. Actions were more important than calendars, and she acted like a spoiled brat. "She's never had to lift a finger in her life."

"You spend much time around rich kids?" Knox asked, and dammit, I had to remember how perceptive he was. Those sparkling eyes missed nothing. Telling a vague truth about my past and then changing the subject seemed like the best option.

"I was a scholarship student. If Luna accidentally landed face-first in the pool, would you have to rescue her?"

"Unfortunately." He glanced across at the brat and Jubilee. "Probably shouldn't say that."

"We're all thinking it." A sigh escaped. "I'd better go educate her."

"Good luck."

Luna glanced up as I headed in her direction, her expression miserable. Good. How did she think the poor turtle had felt when she interrupted its egg-laying to make it an "online sensation"? I sincerely hoped she'd use this month to learn from her mistakes, but I had my doubts she was capable.

"You're just stirring the dirt around," I told her. "The idea is that you remove it from the water."

Gilbert the green turtle watched from the shelter of his favourite rock with bemused curiosity. He was one of our permanent residents. Several years ago, one of his flippers had been amputated after he got tangled in a ghost net, and to add insult to injury, he'd also been hit by a boat. The dent in his shell was obvious when you got close. Now he'd live out his days here, safe in his pool. We tried to make it a home for him by adding rocks and sand, plus Franklin was experimenting with growing seagrass.

"It stinks."

The smell was barely detectable, and it was just saltwater, not shit. "What did you expect? Chanel N°5?"

"This is slavery—you understand that, right?"

I smiled sweetly. "If you'd rather do nothing all day, you're welcome to go to jail instead. I'm sure they'd give you a room of your own, and I hear the stew they serve for dinner is almost edible."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? You think it's funny."

"Honestly? I knew before you even arrived that you'd be trouble. You're not doing anything constructive, and you're taking up time I don't have. I've had a hundred calls from reporters today already—no exaggeration—who all want to photograph your sorry ass, and folks would rather go destroy the environment at the Blayz Festival than volunteer to help us here. So no, I'm not enjoying this."

Ryder chose that moment to meander in from the beach with a pair of binoculars in his hand. "There are seven boats out there, and I counted eleven photographers on board. They don't look as if they're planning to come past the reef for the moment, but we should be prepared in case they try."

"You mean I should refresh my lipstick?" Luna asked.

"For fuck's sake." Knox rolled his eyes skyward. "He means that we should be prepared to remove them from the property."

"Is that allowed? One of my ex-bodyguards got sued for pushing a reporter."

"In San Gallicano?" I asked.

"No, in Vegas. You know, back in civilisation where forced labour is against the law."

"You're not in Vegas now, Dorothy."

"My name is Luna, you numbskull."

The joke went right over her head, and without thinking, I copied Knox's eye-roll. What a dumbass.

"Well, Judge Morgan tends to be a little more pragmatic with his rulings, plus he's not a big fan of journalists. Or Americans." Not after an intrepid travel writer from Florida criticised his son's hotel for being "too rustic." Two stars, needs a minibar and in-room entertainment. Jacob Morgan ran an ecolodge, for Pete's sake. Rustic was the whole point. "I'll call Vince and see if there's a patrol boat nearby."

"Vince?" Knox asked.

"Detective Fernandez."

Luna narrowed her eyes. "You're on first-name terms with the jerk who arrested me?"

"It's a small country. I'm on first-name terms with a lot of people."

"You were probably in on his whole conspiracy to humiliate me." She huffed, then glanced across at the sea. "Why don't I just pose for some pictures? Then they might go away."

Knox snorted. "Are you kidding? If you give them what they want, then tomorrow, we'll have thirty boats out there."

"Shoulda brought limpet mines," Ryder muttered.

Jubilee stepped forward and tried a shaky smile. "Luna, the judge said he didn't want to see any pictures of you."

"On my socials. These photos wouldn't be on my accounts, would they? They'd be on TMZ, celebgossip.com, PopSugar, the Hollywood Hotlist… Do you realise how much exposure I'm missing out on?"

Boo-freaking-hoo.

"Think of your family too. Cordelia's worried about the impact this will have on your father's reputation. She's emailed me six times already."

"Only six?"

Okay, I'd bite. "Who's Cordelia?"

"Luna's half-sister," Jubilee explained. "She lives in England."

Luna pulled a face that would have lost her a million Instagram followers. "Lady Cordelia. She thinks that just because she has a title and lives in a castle, everybody should bow and scrape at her feet."

"It's actually only a stately home," Jubilee put in, then withered when Luna skewered her with a glare. "Sorry."

"Cordelia lives off family money and does literally zero work, but she still thinks she can tell me how to run my life."

"You're also doing zero work," I pointed out.

"Are you kidding? I've released three studio albums and performed on eight continents, plus I post new content every day."

"There are only seven continents." Unless you counted Zealandia, which was controversial and also mostly underwater.

"Whatever. At least I have a career. Are you going to spend the next five decades picking poop out of pools?"

The dig hurt, but I tried not to show it. Truthfully, I had no idea what the next five decades would bring. Once, I'd been more similar to Luna than I cared to admit, but I liked to think I'd become a better person. Did I want to spend the rest of my life at the sanctuary? Honestly, I wasn't sure. Here, I felt safe, or at least as safe as I could feel after Aiden vowed to find me and make me pay for what I'd done. And I'd feel guilty if I left Franklin. He'd given me a place to stay, helped me to find my feet again. I did care about the turtles, and that would never change, but there were times when I wished there was more to my world than a screened-off bunk bed and a succession of visitors who were just passing through on their way to another adventure.

"At least poop doesn't whine constantly." The phone clipped to my belt vibrated, and I cursed under my breath. "If this is another idiot with a press pass looking for an exclusive…" I jabbed at the "answer" button. "Are you a reporter?"

"Uh, yes? My name is?—"

"Oh, go take a hike on Skeleton Cay."

"Skeleton Cay? Is that the place where they found the bodies a while back?"

"It's real nice at this time of year."

"But—"

"Look, nobody's going to talk to you. Luna's here to work, not give interviews."

"Who's Luna?"

"Are you serious?"

"Is this the Valentine Cay Turtle Sanctuary? Mr. Baptiste promised to speak with me regarding the decline in turtle populations, but I think I may have the wrong number?"

Aw, shit. Now I felt like the biggest fool on the planet. The biggest bitch too. I did recall Franklin mentioning an email from an investigative reporter asking about our marine life surveys. She'd done some big story on poaching in Africa a few years ago and won a Pulitzer. What was her name? Tracy? Lacey? Kasey?

I blew out a breath. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. It's been a difficult day. Your name is…?"

Luna smirked at the apology, and I wished she'd landed up on Skeleton Cay. Alone, with no laptop, phone, or internet connection. Ryder glanced down at my hand, and I realised it was balled into a fist. The brat just had that effect on me.

Thankfully, he took pity. "Luna, I don't think anyone cleaned the breakfast dishes yet."

"And you want me to do it?"

"Yeah, I do."

Miraculously, she let him lead her out of the room, and the knot of tension in my belly loosened enough for me to take in air.

"I'm Stacey. Stacey Custer," the reporter said. Stacey. Well, I'd been in the ballpark. "And I'm sorry about your day. A friend of mine wrote an article on stress in the modern world, and constant connectivity combined with a lack of time has impacted mental health in a big way over the past several decades. The phone is a necessary evil."

"Sometimes I wish I could just turn it off. I thought being on an island, I'd get some peace, but the signal is surprisingly good here. You're looking for Franklin? He's out right now, but I can take a number and ask him to call you."

"I was hoping to visit the sanctuary. Do you think that would be possible? He offered me a tour and said we could talk over lunch. I'm writing a story on the illegal wildlife trade—that's my passion project—but I also submit articles to travel magazines."

"Gotta pay the bills, huh?"

"Exactly. So I figured I could kill two birds with one stone. Research for my main project, plus background for an article on volunteering overseas."

"Sure, we can help with that. When were you thinking of coming?"

"Tomorrow? Assuming I can get there. I'm on Ilha Grande, and every person with a boat for hire seems to be busy this month."

Three guesses as to why. I glanced out to the bay, where seven boats had turned into eight, and one of them was perilously close to the reef.

"There's a ferry. Two ferries, actually. Go to Half Moon Bay, and there's a stand at the end with a yellow roof. The catamaran will take you to Malavilla, and from there, it's a short hop over to Valentine Cay."

"Weird, a guy in the grocery store near Half Moon Bay told me there were no ferries to Valentine Cay for the rest of the season. Maintenance or something."

"Did you happen to tell him you were a reporter?"

"I might have mentioned a travel article."

"That's why. There are way too many troublesome reporters in town at the moment."

A pause. "Writing about the wildlife trade?"

"No, no, they write for the gossip pages."

"Yikes. Well, better them than me. My ex used to freelance for celebgossip.com and the Hollywood Hotlist—probably still does, but I avoid those sites like the plague, so I don't know for sure. Maybe the fact that he was an asshole makes me kind of biased? Anyhow, I just assume all those guys are the same. More ‘invasion of privacy' than journalism."

"Then I guess I'm biased too, because they're definitely assholes."

She laughed. "I'll see you tomorrow. Mid-morning okay?"

"That works." Mid-morning would give me three hours to get some work out of Luna before I needed respite. "If you can't find anyone to drive you from the jetty to the sanctuary, give me a call and one of us will pick you up."