He stopped walking and looked steadily at her. “And what things matter to you, Miss Burton?”

July 1964

AT least in this she hadn’t lied to her friends: As she’d told Artie, Marjorie really was in a rush. She wanted to put as much distance as she could between herself and her parents, to make sure they couldn’t follow her somehow and grab her back.

Surprisingly, this quick stop at the hotel was working in her favor. Perele and the others would think she was back living with her parents while she went job-hunting, and her parents would assume that she was angry and had gone back to the hotel. That should give her a few days to disappear from sight before anyone even realized she was gone.

But still... maybe they could trace her through the Mustang? Would they call the cops? Hire a private detective?

Just get out of here already, Marge. As fast as you can.

But with all her anxiety to be on the road, Marjorie did not feel like hurrying. She strolled the Boardwalk with Artie, enjoying Coney Island’s unique fragrance: a tantalizing mixture of cotton candy, popcorn, hot dogs with mustard and sauerkraut, and the sea.

They didn’t say much. Artie politely asked if she wanted a drink, she just-as-politely said no. When they reached Luna Park, Coney’s iconic and increasingly shabby amusement park, Artie came to an abrupt halt.

He pointed to the park’s most famous ride, the Cyclone, a huge monstrosity of a roller coaster that took daring passengers on its wooden tracks for a wild two-minute ride. Artie said something, but with the backdrop of the riders’ screams, the grinding of the gears, and the clanking of the roller coaster cars on its wooden tracks, Marjorie couldn’t make out what it was.

The roller coaster lurched to its abrupt, stomach-turning end; the passengers’ screams turned into laughter and good-natured shouts.

They walked on for another minute. “What did you say, back there at the Cyclone?”