By nine A.M., she had everything set up. Packing quickly, she threw what she needed in her car and drove to a store on Capitol Hill for a few supplies, then continued to the ferry. The wait on shore and then the crossing seemed to take forever, but eventually she drove into Kate’s driveway.

The front yard had a wild, untended look about it, as if long ago a young mother had spent her spring months outside, planting bulbs and perennials, with her babies in blankets on the grass around her, and over the years, as those kids had grown up and chosen their own summer pursuits, the time for gardening had been lost. All those plants still thrived in the short, hot blast of a Northwest summer, though, returning year after year as reminders of an earlier time, growing up and out and into one another, just like the family that lived in the house. Now, in the midst of a cold, gray November’s day, every plant looked leggy and brown. Leaves lay strewn everywhere, multicolored splashes hung on dying roses.

Tully parked her Mercedes in front of the garage and got out. As she picked her way through the bikes and skateboards and action figures strewn across the gravel path, she couldn’t help admiring how homey this place was, even at this time of year. The shingled house, built in the twenties for a wealthy lumber baron’s weekends, wore a new, crisp coat of caramel-hued stain; bright glossy white trim outlined the mullioned windows, beneath which were flower boxes filled with the last blooming geraniums of the season.

On the front porch, she squeezed past a freestanding clown/punching bag and knocked on the door.

Kate answered, wearing a pair of worn black leggings and an oversized T-shirt. With her blond hair badly in need of both a cut and a color, she looked ragged. Worn out. “Oh,” she said, tucking the hair behind her right ear. “What a nice surprise.”

“I’m going to ask you once, nicely, to come with me.”

“What do you mean, come with you? I’m right in the middle of something. The boys’ Little League team is having a quilting fundraiser. As soon as I finish—”

Tully pulled a bright yellow squirt gun out of her pocket and pointed it at Kate. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

“You’re going to shoot me?”

“I am.”

“Look, I know how much you love drama, but I don’t have time for it today. I’ve got to quilt about fifty bits of fabric before—”

Tully pulled the trigger. A stream of cold water snaked through the air and hit Kate full in the chest. Moisture seeped through her cotton T-shirt, leaving a stain.

“What the—”

“This is a kidnapping. Don’t make me aim for your face, although you appear to need a shower, frankly.”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”