He’d actually called her that, in the heat of their last argument. Untouchable.

That had been his excuse for cheating with his ex-wife.

And it had been pure bullshit.

She opened the small trunk and placed the box of wine inside, slammed the lid. Then, with furious motions of one arm, Brynne cleared the windshield of her car, loving it more than ever.

It was fast and it was beautiful.

It was also a middle finger to Clay and to anyone else who judged Brynne on the basis of her appearance and her quiet personality.

A strange, violent joy possessed Brynne as she slipped into the driver’s seat, extracted her keys from her purse and turned the ignition.

The engine, too big for such a small vehicle, gave a satisfactory roar.

She backed out of her short driveway, careful not to overturn the garbage cans placed at the curb by her cleanup crew, and pointed herself in the direction of Sara’s house.

Minutes later, she pulled into the wide circular driveway of a modest but beautiful brick house, with an old-fashioned porch and white shutters at the many windows.

Given Sara’s success as Luke Cantrell, creator of Elliott Starr, a Clint Eastwood–style lawman and inveterate seeker of justice, the casual observer might have wondered at the relatively small size of the place.

Brynne knew, as did Sara’s other friends, that the simplicity of that house was a reflection of Sara’s nature. She lived well, but possessions weren’t that important to her; she valued her children, her brother, her friends. She wrote because she was a born storyteller, and she confided to Brynne more than once that she sometimes felt a little guilty, being paid so well for something she would have done for free.

Sara, by her own admission, had been making up stories since the age of ten, at first to create refuges for herself, imaginary places where life was kinder and far more interesting, then because she’d grown to love writing so much that she couldn’t stop.

Stories followed her, haunting her, demanding to be told.

Brynne got out of her car and went around behind it to collect the wine.

Dan Summers burst out of the front door, startling her. Beaming that infectious smile of his.

“Let me get that,” he said. “You go on inside, where it’s nice and warm. Sara’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”

Brynne laughed. “Well, happy New Year to you, too, Dan.”

The grin broadened. “Hurry up,” he said. “Eric’s been handing me my ass at World of Warcraft for an hour. I need to get back in there and try to save my honor as a man.”

“I’m hurrying,” Brynne answered, smiling. Halfway up the walk, she turned and called over one shoulder, “Are Melba and the girls joining us?”

Instantly, the grin was gone from Dan’s handsome face.