She pulled into the parking lot nearest the tennis courts and checked herself in her visor mirror. It always surprised her that she didn’t look as crazy as she felt. She had kept her hair swept back into a ponytail and made the attempt to soften the harsh lines of her face with makeup.

In the old days she would have put on something pretty—a sundress or a soft summer skirt with a feminine top. She would have accessorized with fun vintage jewelry—chunky, colorful Bakelite pieces; a necklace and an arm full of bangle bracelets. Her shoes would have been the latest fashion.

God, she had loved shoes. In Santa Barbara she had an entire walk-in closet of shoes and bags. Now she didn’t care. She had brought three pair of shoes with her to Oak Knoll. The woman she was had been put into storage. She had put the house Lance had designed for them on the market, unable to stay there with all the memories.

She got out of the car, smoothing the wrinkles from her tan linen slacks and black summer sweater set. She looked around, anxious, half expecting to see Greg Hewitt watching her from a distance. She had no doubt she would see him again. He wouldn’t simply go away because she’d told him to, or because she had pulled a gun on him. He hadn’t gone to the trouble of coming here only to turn around and leave.

But it wasn’t Greg Hewitt she saw as she turned around. It was Roland Ballencoa’s van.

Her heart began a bass drumbeat in her chest. Now when she looked around, it was with the anxiety of a wild animal looking for a predator. The park was full of people going on with their ordinary lives, none of them looking for a cobra in the grass.

Lauren hitched the strap of her handbag up on her shoulder and pressed the bag close against her side, slipping her hand into the zippered compartment. She touched the Walther like a worry stone.

The cab of the van appeared to be empty. She walked toward it and around it, giving it a wide berth, as if it were a dangerous creature, not just a vehicle that transported a dangerous creature. She couldn’t see into the back of it. Ballencoa could have been inside. Or his next victim.

She came closer, imagining not just someone inside the back of the van, but Leslie in the back of the van. The police had speculated that Ballencoa had probably grabbed her off the side of the road and put her in the back of the van bound and gagged. The mental image of that had haunted Lauren’s nightmares night after night after night. She could see her daughter, see the fear in her eyes, as she lay helpless.