Chapter 11

That night, Margot sat in the window bay with the shutters wide open. The moon had risen high in the velvet sky, but the city hadn’t quieted yet. The breeze carried soprano laughter, the rumble of an engine, the chime of a shop doorbell. Lingering in every sound was a sweetness, steeped in the balmy summer evening.

And tomorrow, she’d have to leave it all behind to board Flight AA 9372.

She leaned her head back, letting the faint scent of salt and citrus wash over her. The day after her parents finalized their divorce, her dad took her to a pier in a tiny seaside town where he bought her a cotton candy spear, three times the size of her head. (She later puked that cotton candy off the side of the carousel, but that was beside the point.)

He spent the whole day distracting her with carnival lights and game booths and the smell of buttered popcorn so thick, she had to wash her cardigan three times to get it out. Every spin down that boardwalk kept the bad feelings at bay, at least in the moment.

Those reprieves never lasted forever. For each heightened feeling of molten joy in the good times, every dark was so much deeper. In the quiet hours of the night, when all she had to keep her mind busy were the spinning blades of a ceiling fan and her own spiraling thoughts, a restlessness thick as a quilt would sometimes blanket her, smothering.

The only thing that ever eased the ache in her chest was running from it. Not in the literal, track team sense. But throwing herself into something new. Ballet or bread making or backpacking through Europe—anything to outrun the weight of not being good enough. Just like she had on the pier when salt water and spun sugar had held back her tears. If she filled her days with sunshine and coastline breezes, maybe she didn’t have to feel anything except the rush of adrenaline, the thrill of an adventure.

But if she found the rest of the Vase of Venus Aurelia, she’d be spared the weight of her dad’s disappointment every time she decided to reinvent herself, trying to find a version of the daughter he’d know what to do with.

Suki wafted in from the bathroom, startling Margot out of her thoughts. The steam was heavy with the scent of the hotel’s rosemary-and-lemon soap. A terry cloth towel bobbled on top of her head as she sank onto the foot of her bed, eyes trained on Margot. “So, tell me everything.”

Margot stuttered, “Everything about what?”

Suki threw herself back onto the bed, arms spread starfish wide. “Why you blew off pizza night for your date with Chad, obviously.”

Excuse me? Margot could have died right then, right there. “My what with who? I didn’t go on a date with anyone. Definitely not Chad.”

Astrid finished brushing out her white-blonde hair in the closet’s full-length mirror. “Please. You’re clearly obsessed with him.”

“Me?” Margot asked. “Suki hasn’t stopped drooling over him in the twelve hours since she met him.”

Suki raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “Guilty as charged.”

“I thought you had a thing for Rex,” Margot said.

“That was before I knew Chad Vanderson existed. The heart wants what the heart wants.” Suki rolled over and propped her chin up on her hands, her feet kicking in the air. “Seriously, how did I not see him at all last year? I totally would have remembered a face like his.”

“That’s what I want to know,” Astrid said. She sat down on the floor next to Suki’s bunk, and Suki weaved her fingers into her hair, threading the silk strands into braids. “By the way, thanks a lot for ditching me this afternoon just to go pick him up. You know how much I love doing your work for you.”

Suki added, “And you guys bailed on dinner, sooooo . . . I demand deets!”

While the rest of the group scarfed down pizzas, Margot and Van slipped inside a vintage consignment shop filled with patched leather jackets and well-worn cotton blends. Astrid had been right about one thing: Van stuck out like a sore thumb in his suspenders.

Margot had piled her arms full of clothes and shoved Van into the dressing room. He’d grumbled with every quick change. There were spaghetti western cowboy hats and feathered boas and plaid bell-bottoms. His frown lines grew as deep as the Adriatic when he donned a shirt that barely stretched across his shoulders and did nothing to cover the flat planes of his abdomen.

Heat had flared against Margot’s cheeks. “Crop tops are a fashion statement.”

“Not one I plan on making.” Van glowered. Absolutely no joy reached his eyes.

“Here,” Margot had said as she slid a pair of outrageously pink sunglasses on his face. “To complete the Ken doll look.”

His scowl had deepened. He ripped the shades off and plucked another option from the pile of shirts and vanished back into the dressing room.

The memory warmed Margot’s cheeks as she hopped down from the windowsill. Goose bumps had risen on her arms despite the evening’s humidity, and she tried not to obviously shuck them from her arms as the girls stared. “I told you. His luggage got lost, so we went to buy him some new clothes. Hardly scandalous.”

A light flashed in Suki’s eyes. “So, you’re just friends?”

Margot gave a tight-lipped nod. Friends. Was that the word for what she and Van were? They were acquaintances. Reluctant allies, maybe. He did cover for her with Dr. Hunt, even if he nearly drowned her within the same hour. But anything more than that? It would take a pretty hefty suspension of disbelief. After all, he didn’t do partners. She knew better than to think that he could do friends.

Margot went to shut the window but paused halfway. Below, the hotel’s back door slammed, and Margot leaned out for a better view. Whatever she expected to see, it wasn’t a very familiar set of shoulders in a daffodil-yellow T-shirt with the tag still flopping out of the back collar, wandering the parking lot.

“Oh, my god,” Margot said, lurching upright. If it weren’t for the wrought iron window guard, she would have tumbled out onto the pavement.

What was Van doing out there? And, more importantly, why was he doing it without her?

She slammed the glass panes shut with such force that Astrid startled backward and banged her head against the bed frame.

“What is it?” Suki asked. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Margot couldn’t get her sneakers on fast enough. “Not a ghost. Just, um . . . I just remembered that Chad forgot to pay me for the thrift shop. Thanks for reminding me.”

She whipped out the door and bypassed the elevator entirely. Instead, she sped so quickly down the rickety set of carpeted stairs that her feet tangled underneath her. Everything spun until she crash-landed into the lobby with a spectacular finish.

“I’m fine!” she called out to Giuseppe, who may or may not have bothered to look up from his computer.

With a huff, Margot peeled herself off the floor and raced to the parking lot. She braced her hands against her knees and caught her breath as she scanned for Van.

There.

He beelined toward the back of the lot. Inhaling, Margot marched up behind him.

“Are you trying to leave me?” she asked.

Van didn’t even glance in her direction. “At this moment? Yes.”

“We had a deal.”

“We still have a deal.” Van shrugged, nonchalant. “You get the Vase, and I get the treasure.”

Margot had to jog to match his fast clip. “Then where are you going?”

“To get the Vase.”

Margot grabbed his shirtsleeve, halting him. “Seriously?”

Van stared down at her. “You barely survived the Nymphaeum. You’ll just slow me down.” His tone was horrifically even. Calculated and cold. He said it like it was obvious.

Margot only dug her heels in. “No, I won’t. I swear.”

Releasing himself from her grasp, he said, “You are quite literally slowing me down as we speak.”

Van turned and yanked the handle of a mint green Fiat about the size of a sweet pea to no avail. The door didn’t budge.

Margot clicked her tongue.

He pulled again, harder this time. Both hands gripped the handle, white-knuckled, as he put all his weight behind it. Van huffed. He wiped his hands off on his pants and tried again.

“You have to click the unlock button on the key fob,” Margot said, taking pity on him. “And should you really be driving? Hasn’t your license expired?”

The Fiat beeped and lights flashed unpredictably as Van smashed every button on the fob. Finally, he clicked the right one and pulled the door open. “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have a driver’s license?” Margot halted, a realization settling. “You stole my Vespa, and you can’t even drive?”

“I can drive fine,” he bristled.

“Your complete lack of paperwork licensing you to operate motor vehicles totally disagrees.”

“I lived in Manhattan, and a Cadillac wasn’t exactly in the budget. I just walked everywhere.” He clutched the keys tighter in his fist. “You don’t have to be a genius to drive. Trust me, I’ve seen Atlas do it countless times.”

“No way. Give me the keys,” Margot said, palm outstretched.

“You’re not coming with me.” Van closed the driver’s side door behind him.

Groaning, Margot marched to the other side and slumped into the passenger seat. The seat belt fastened with a click. “Yes. I am.”

Van wrestled with his. He pulled as much of the belt out as physically possible. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to manage to strangle himself. “What is this heinous contraption?”

His grip slipped, and the belt snapped backward.

“It’s called a seat belt,” she said. Van tried to mimic her movement but pulled too hard too fast and the seat belt seized. Margot reached around and gently guided his hand, the latch fitting into the buckle. “You wouldn’t know because they hadn’t been invented yet last time you were conscious. Which is why you shouldn’t be driving.”

Van twisted the key into the ignition. Headstrong as ever. He shifted the car into gear and leaned one hand against Margot’s headrest to look through the back window.

Except instead of reversing, the car lurched forward.

“Van!” Margot screeched.

He slammed on the brake, millimeters from ramming into the building next door.

“Hold on,” he said. “I’ve got this.”

He twisted every knob, pulled every lever. The sunroof slid open, the headlights flashed, wipers skidded across the windshield, cleaning solution shot through the now-open sunroof. Margot wiped the droplets off her face with the back of her hand.

She was going to die.

“Let me drive.”

“I can do it,” he said, his mouth pinched, forehead etched with deep grooves. Astonishingly, he navigated the car out of the parking spot without hitting anything. The only casualty was the death grip Margot had on the oh-shit handlebar. He wagged an eyebrow as if to say, See?

Until he tried to drive forward, and his lead foot nearly ran them straight into oncoming traffic.

Margot yanked the emergency brake. The tires screeched. Her skull slammed against the headrest, and Van turned to her, eyes wide as a passing car laid on their horn.

She unfastened her seat belt and Van’s. “Get out. Now.”

This time, Van obliged. They crossed paths in the headlights beam, and Margot shook the tension out of her shoulders as she situated herself in the driver’s seat. She scooted her seat up as far as it would go and adjusted her mirrors.

“Are you sure you want to—”

Margot clicked a button on the center console, and an LED illuminated, shifting the car into Sport Mode. “If I can survive Atlanta traffic, anything’s possible.”

“You’re a regular Alice Ramsey,” Van grumbled.

She drifted onto the main road, exhaust clouding in their wake.