People were scattered over the sand, staking out their territory with towels, blankets, umbrellas, totes, coolers, portable stereos. Nobody just went to the beach anymore, she mused. They packed for a day on the sand the way they packed to go to Europe.

It never failed to amuse her. Every day couples and groups would haul their possessions out of their rentals and hotel rooms and set up their temporary nests on the shore. And every day they would pack everything up again and haul it, along with a good bit of sand, back again.

Holiday nomads. The Bedouins of summer.

Leaving them to it, she headed up to the village. She carried nothing but her police issue, a Swiss Army knife, and a few dollars. Life was simpler that way.

She turned on High Street, intending to spend those few dollars on a quick meal. She was off duty, as much as either she or Zack was ever off duty, and was looking forward to a cold beer and a hot pizza.

When she spotted Nell standing in front of the hotel, looking dazed, she hesitated. It was as good a time as any, she supposed, to make that friendly overture.

“Hey, Nell.”

“What? Oh. Hello, Ripley.”

“You look a little lost.”

“No.” She knew just where she was, Nell thought. At the moment, it was the only thing she was absolutely sure of. “Just a little distracted.”

“Long day, huh? Listen, I’m about to grab some dinner. A little early, but I’m starved. Why don’t we split a pizza? My treat.”

“Oh.” She continued to blink, like someone coming out of a dream.

“The Surfside makes the best pizza on the island. Well, it’s the only pizza place on the island, but still . . . How’re things going at the café?”

“Good.” There was really nothing to do but fall into step. She couldn’t think clearly and would have sworn that her fingers still tingled. “I love working there.”

“You’ve classed up the place,” Ripley commented, and angled her head to get a look at the book Nell carried. “Reading up on island voodoo?”

“Voodoo? Oh.” With a nervous laugh, Nell tucked the book under her arm. “I guess if I’m living here, I ought to know . . . things.”

“Sure.” Ripley pulled open the door of the pizzeria. “The tourists love all that island mystique crap. When we hit the solstice, we’ll be flooded with New Agers. Hey, Bart!”

Ripley gave the man behind the counter a salute and grabbed an empty booth.

It may have been early, but the place was jammed. The jukebox was blaring, and the two video games tucked back in a small alcove shot out noise and light.