Her first thought was for Isaac, and she searched the pool of illumination for him as her father disarmed the system and opened the door. He wasn’t with Jim, though.

Oh, dear Lord . . .

“Everyone’s okay,” Jim called out across the lawn, as if he’d read her mind. “It’s all done.”

The relief was so great she excused herself briefly, ducking into the kitchen, putting the gun down, and bracing her arms on the table. From the other room, she heard the deep voices of her father and Heron, but she doubted she would have tracked the conversation if she’d been standing next to them. Isaac was all right. He was okay. He was all right. . . .

It was over. Done with. And now, just as Isaac would be taking off in relative freedom, she could try to move on as well.

Man, she needed a vacation.

Somewhere frivolous and warm, she decided as she went over and picked up the dessert plates. Somewhere with palm trees. Mai tais and umbrellas. Beach. Pool—

Tick . . . tick . . . whir . . .

Grier frowned and slowly looked across her shoulder.

Over by the refrigerator, the back door’s dead bolt was shifting from right to left at the same time the old-fashioned latch lifted up.

The voices out in the living room went suddenly silent.

Too silent.

This was wrong. All wrong—

She dropped the plates and lunged for the gun she’d left on the counter—

Grier didn’t make it. Something bit into her shoulder blade, and then an electrical charge slammed through her body, throwing her into a backward arch that knocked her off her feet and took her down hard onto the floor.

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 47

Back in Beacon Hill, Isaac walked up the town house’s front stairs, paused at the second-floor landing and then kept going to Grier’s bedroom. In her private space, he paced around the bed, and felt like he was losing his ever-loving mind.

He checked her alarm clock. Walked to the French doors. Looked out onto the terrace.

Nothing moved outside, and there was no one else in the house but him and Jim.

Time was passing, but nobody was showing, and no matter how many times he went down to Jim and then came back upstairs again, he wasn’t able to jump-start the next sequence of events.

It was like a director with no bullhorn and a cast and crew who didn’t give a shit what he had to say.

The inescapable fear that drove him was that they were in the wrong place. That he and Jim were cooling their heels out here while the action was happening elsewhere. Like Grier’s father’s farmhouse.

On a vicious curse, he headed back for the staircase and jogged downward, expecting nothing else along the way or at the bottom other than a short pause in the kitchen and another trip up.

Except . . .