The Hearts just solved the whole damn puzzle.” A pseudo-Southern accent snuck its way into Knox’s voice, which Gigi guessed was probably a warning sign that the nickname Grumpy Knickers was getting ready to prove itself a total understatement.

She prepared herself for the shift to Grumpy Pantaloons.

“And all we have,” Knox continued, narrowing his eyes at Gigi, “is that knife.”

“Which I very generously showed to you,” Gigi pointed out. “And sidenote: You should not be at all nervous about me holding it with the pointy end aimed vaguely in your overtly negative direction.”

“We also have the sheath.” Brady turned it over in his hand. He’d asked to see it. Gigi had given it to him, as much to annoy Knox as because something about trusting Brady felt right, no matter what Gigi’s mental- Savannah had to say about it.

Brady ran his thumb over the surface of the sheath. “Thirteen.”

“The number of notches carved into the leather,” Gigi said, holding out her hand. Brady passed the sheath to her without a moment’s hesitation or a word of complaint.

See? Gigi told the Savannah in her mind.

“So trustworthy,” Knox said under his breath. He swiveled his head back toward Gigi. “Do you want to know what the real difference between Brady and me is, short stuff?”

“Short stuff?” Gigi repeated. “Really? You need a serious nickname tutorial.”

“The difference,” Brady told Knox, his voice quiet and low, “is that I loved her.”

Calla. Every instinct Gigi had said this was going to get very ugly, very fast. “Dimes!” Gigi opted for the first distraction that came to mind. “Three dimes! What do they mean?”

It was a good question, but the distraction didn’t stick.

“It’s been six years, Brady.” Knox’s voice reminded Gigi of sandpaper.

All traces of the accent she’d heard earlier were gone.

“I know exactly how long it’s been.” Brady took off his glasses and cleaned them on the end of his dress shirt. “And I already gave you your second chance.” The glasses went back on. “Last year.”

“If you would just—”

“Dimes.” Brady cut off Knox and turned to Gigi. “Three dimes.”

Gigi made the executive decision to step in between the two of them and prophylactically try for another distraction “What makes you happy?”

“What?” Knox looked like he’d just snorted milk out his nose and was trying to recover without anyone noticing. His nostrils flared. His eyes opened wider—but not in a good way.

“What is one thing,” Gigi said, “that makes you happy? You might recall that one of my specialties is providing distractions. Brains aren’t built to be neutral. When you get stuck in a loop of confirmation biases and stale ideas, you have to take the bull by the horns and jar the hamster off the wheel.”

“No hamster metaphors,” Knox practically snarled.

Gigi sheathed her knife, pushed up her skirt, propped her foot up on the side of the desk, and used her duct tape to strap the blade back to her thigh. “What? Makes? You? Happy?”

Knox didn’t know it yet, but he wasn’t going to win this one.

Brady answered. “My mama’s dog. His name is That Dog. That Dog is not a particularly small or sweet-smelling canine, but he sleeps on Mama’s bed every night.”

“I love him already,” Gigi said. “Knox? What makes you—”

“Money,” Knox said flatly. “Money makes me happy.” Gigi stared at him, cheerfully waiting, and finally, Knox broke. “Fried chicken,” he grumped. “Okay? Drumsticks that have been in the refrigerator overnight.

Old cars. Expensive scotch.” Knox looked away, his body wound tight. “And constellations.”

Brady went very, very still.

Sufficiently distracted herself, Gigi forced a mental pivot. Her brain latched on to a new course of action, and she didn’t question it. She just grabbed the jeweled band on her skirt and bent it down, baring the rest of her midriff—and the words she’d written there.

MANGA. RA. The knife hadn’t been the only thing she’d found on the island.

Brady immediately crouched, his eyes level with her stomach. He studied her exposed skin from behind his thick-rimmed glasses, and Gigi thought suddenly of the way that Jameson Hawthorne had looked at Avery Grambs, about the fact that no one had ever looked at her like that—or with the kind of naked, raw fascination clear on Brady’s face now.

“Manga.” Brady brought his hand to hover just over Gigi’s stomach. “Ra.”

“Egyptian god of the sun,” Gigi said, and if she had to remind herself to breathe a little, that was totally normal and probably, hopefully, maybe not that conspicuous.

“Knox?” Brady brought his hand to actually touch Gigi’s skin, lightly tracing the word RA. “Do you see it?”

Warmth spread over Gigi’s skin, radiating from every point of contact. “She’s eighteen,” Knox snapped. “I’m twenty-five. I don’t see a damn

thing.”

“The letters.” Brady’s touch was gentle, sure. “Rearrange them.”

So nerdy, Gigi thought. Such jaw! And he sounds so… so…

She cut her imagination off before it could generate a vivid depiction of what it might be like to touch Brady’s stomach the way he was touching hers.

The letters, Brady had said. Rearrange them.

Gigi’s brain exploded—in a good way. “It’s an anagram,” she breathed. “For…” Gigi sorted through the possibilities at warp speed. “Anagram! Manga ra is an anagram for the word anagram. A little meta for my tastes, but totally useful.”

Brady dropped his hand to his side. Her body buzzing for more than one reason, Gigi bounded toward their collection of objects. “Anagrams. We’re

looking for anagrams.”

Anagrams. And the dimes and the quarters were both coins.

Just like that, Gigi Grayson, barer of hints and solver of puzzles, saw the answers, all three of them, all at once.

And just like that, she could fly.