“The oil’s the tunnel and Pearsons Road. Once that’s done, we’re set.”

Only there hasn’t been an oil strike, Luke thinks. None of this is natural. It’s all been engineered by Cole Graydon, and they’ve got no idea what tricks he’s pulled behind the scenes to make it happen.

But there’s still a lot of truth in what Marty’s saying. Even if the resort goes bust, the tunnel and the widening of the road that leads to it will turn Altamira into a well-placed stop on a safe, new thoroughfare between a heavily trafficked freeway and one of the most beloved scenic highways in the world. For the first time, Altamira will be something more than a name on a freeway sign most people blow past on their way to Los Angeles or San Francisco.

Brasher hears the car first and turns in his chair.

Luke and Marty both jump to their feet at the same time. Then they’re all standing in the front yard. A Lincoln Town Car’s pulling away from the curb, and a short figure about Charlotte’s height is headed up the front walk, toting the same rolling suitcase Charlotte left with. The baseball cap is distinctly un-Charlotte, however. Either her shoulder-length hair’s been gathered up under it, or she chopped it all off. This reminds Luke too much of his mother’s chemo baldness, and for a second, he actually hopes it’s not Charlotte walking toward them but one of Cole’s minions whose brought her stuff back ahead of time.

Because that wouldn’t be a bad sign at all.

But it’s Charley. And when he sees the bright-eyed smile she’s giving them, something inside him turns soft, then gives way. Suddenly he’s closed the distance between them and she’s in his arms, her feet actually coming up off the sidewalk as her suitcase lists to one side behind her.

“Easy, tiger,” she gasps, but she doesn’t sound like she wants him to let her go. Not yet. So the only concession he makes is to set her back down on the pavement and tighten his embrace a little and lean back so he can see her face.

If the guys weren’t there, he’d channel all his relief into a showstopper of a kiss, but they’re already moving forward and ushering them inside, and Marty’s asking Charley what she’d like to drink. So Luke’s forced to share her for the time being, even though that’s the last thing he wants to do.

Then, when they’re in the dining room, under the harsh overhead light, he sees it.

He’s looking for a ghostly, shell-shocked expression, but what he sees is much different. There’s a radiance to her that’s distinctly new, and he finds himself rushing to explain it away. Even the blandest food will taste like a delicacy to a starving man, and maybe the fact that he’s missed her so much has him regarding every tilt of her chin or cock of her head as if it were ballet. Then he has a darker suspicion—that she’s both deeply satisfied and energized by whatever gruesome punishment she meted out against her target, the name of whom she’s forbidden to share with him.

But as he studies her, as he guides her to the dining table by one hand while the other guys pelt her with small talk all designed to distract everyone from the fact that they can’t ask her questions about where she’s been, Luke realizes none of these explanations will suffice. This radiance is in her flesh, her coloring. Even the dome of her forehead looks smoother, younger.

Shouldn’t she look the opposite? Exhausted and worn out? Recovering, that’s the word Cole used. Whatever happened out there, she actually needed some recovery time. And here she is, a day later, looking younger and fresher than when she left.

“When are we refinishing this table?” she asks.

“Didn’t know we’d signed on for that project,” Marty says.

“You didn’t. I’m talking to Luke.”

Luke smiles, and he sees, despite her improved appearance, the tension and nervousness that comes from not being able to discuss the operation. It’s jarring for all of them, Luke realizes, given what they went through together to get the Mask Maker.

“Figured you’d need some time to rest first,” he says.

“Ah, I’m fine.”

“Well, we can start tonight, then.”

“Not tonight. Just . . . soon.”

“Soon.” He closes the distance between them, takes her in his arms, then reaches up to try to get a peek under her cap.

“Ew, don’t,” she says.

“What happened?”

“Oh, it wasn’t during. It was before. I thought we were going to use a wig, but . . .”

“Gotcha.”

But the way she just trailed off leaves them all awkwardly looking at anything that’s not her. Finally, Marty says, “Did you get him at least? Can you tell us that?”

The shadow of something passes through Charlotte’s expression as she turns to look at the most important man in her life besides Luke.

“Yeah. We got him.”

Marty smiles.

Rucker and Brasher both raise their soft drinks in toast, and Luke pulls her in tighter.

“So,” Charley says, drawing him close again.

“So?”

“I’ve got an idea for my hair,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and I figure you might be able to help me with it.”

23

The ragged strands of hair they’d left her with fall in clumps around her shoulders as Luke runs the clippers across her head. Some of it lands on the bath towel he’s tucked over her shoulders, the rest of it around the legs of the chair he’s pulled into the bathroom for this little impromptu haircut. “Maybe the guys shouldn’t wait on us,” she says.