TWENTY FIVE
Kyle paced the deck of the small yacht, anxious as they sped in the early morning towards Martha’s Vineyard. He could not stand still. He hated boats, and he hated water. Worse, he hated crossing water, like most of his kind. Perhaps even more than most.
That Russian boy had insisted that Caitlin was in this direction. So he’d went with him, up the coast, along a highway. But then their search had ended in a harbor. The Russian had pointed out to the ocean. He had insisted that stupid girl, the source of all his trouble, was on the island.
Kyle had gotten into such a rage, he hadn’t been able to control himself. Not only had this girl made him chase her up the entire East Coast, not only had she made him miss the war, but now she was forcing him to board a boat, to cross wat
