The phone clicked, and he was gone.

2

ON the muggy morning of May 21, as raindrops splattered onto the sidewalk, I locked the door to my lake house and carried an enormous black duffel bag toward a white Cadillac DeVille. Walter Lancing opened the trunk from the driver’s seat, and I tossed the bag inside.

“Where the hell are you going?” he asked cheerfully as we rolled slowly down my drive. I’d called him three hours ago, told him I needed a ride to the airport, and to pick me up by 10:30, hanging up before he could question me.

“Going away for a while,” I said.

“Where? That’s a big piece of luggage you got back there.” He was smiling. I could hear it in his voice as I watched my house dwindle away in the side mirror.

“Just away,” I said.

“Are you being intentionally vague?” Beads of sweat had formed on his unshaven face, and he ran his fingers through his short gray hair. He glanced at me, awaiting my reply as rain fell in sheets from the charcoal sky, followed by a growl of thunder. “Andy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I finished my book. I’m tired. I need a break—you know how it goes.” Walter sighed, and I stared out the window as trees rushed by, listening to rain patter on the windshield. Walter’s wife, Beth, had ridden in this car recently. I could smell her body wash—sweet, icy juniper. Her pink emery board lay on the floor mat at my feet.

“You going back to Aruba?” he asked.

“No.” I wasn’t going to lie outright to him.

“So I guess you aren’t telling Cynthia, either.” I shook my head. “With The Scorcher coming out, she’s gonna go apeshit.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell her. She’s a drill sergeant. Call her tonight at home for me, would you? Tell her I said I’m tired of writing, I need a vacation, and not to worry.”

“And when she asks me where you went?”

“Tell her all you know is it’s some tiny island in the South Pacific.”

“She’ll think I’m lying.”

“That’s her problem. She’s not your agent.”

“Please tell me what’s going—”

“Don’t ask, Walter.”

The rain was still pouring when we turned southbound onto I-77. I closed my eyes and took a careful breath, my heart dancing like I’d thrown down two shots of espresso. I wanted to turn back. The book tour, and relaxing in the comfort of my home while summer burgeoned around the lake, was how I’d envisioned spending the coming months.

“Call me,” Walter said. “Or write. Just let me know you’re okay.”

“If it’s possible, I will.”

“Need me to get your mail and take care of your bills?”

“Yeah. I meant to ask you before.”

“You’re scaring me, Andy,” he said.