Now she was laughing. “Oh my God, my heart was going like crazy, just waiting to shoot him in the face!”

Up ahead, above the tree line, they could see the top of the town’s water tower, the words garrett island painted in ten-foot-high letters on the side. They were approaching a cross street.

Bruce, suddenly subdued, said, “I hope I didn’t make a mistake back there.”

“What?”

“Throwing that gun into the woods.”

“He’ll never find it,” Katie said.

“Not worried about him. It could be someone else. A kid. I don’t like guns. I just wanted to get rid of it. Wasn’t thinking.”

Katie nodded. “When this all blows over, we’ll go back and find it, okay?”

Bruce thought about that and nodded. “Deal.” A smile crossed his lips. “Please tell me you actually know how to read a map?”

Katie slapped the tops of her knees and shrieked. “I know! You could just hear him starting to lose his mind, thinking I was the dumbest girl on this entire island.”

“You convinced me,” Bruce said.

“Oh, thanks for that,” Katie said, turning to look at him, flashing him a huge, admiring smile.

But it disappeared instantly. Her eyes went wide and she screamed: “BRU—”

The Arrival, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, but actually coming out of the cross street as they sped past it, broadsided the Cadillac, hitting it squarely on Bruce’s door.

Everything went black.

Thirty-Six

Joe Bridgeman sat behind the desk in the administrator’s office and looked at the open laptop that had belonged to Arrival CEO Lisa Carver. Although he’d done his best to present himself as calm and clearheaded in front of Sandra, he was churning inside. The events of the last couple of hours still had not sunk in. The cars going haywire. His mother nearly becoming one of their victims. Daniella’s grisly death.

Sandra’s confrontation with Albert Ruskin. The man’s attempt to flee.

And now he was staring at this laptop screen. Wondering how Sandra could think he might be able to figure this out, how to stop this.

Right. No big deal. Let me just roll up my sleeves and turn into Steve Jobs.

He wiggled and stretched his fingers above the keyboard, a pianist getting ready to begin playing a concerto.

Then he heard a moan.

Joe got out of the chair and came around the desk to where Albert Ruskin lay on the floor. There was blood coming from the back of his head, where he’d whacked it on the edge of the desk. Joe got down on one knee next to the man.

Ruskin opened one eye and managed to focus on Joe. “What . . . where . . .”

“You fell,” Joe said.

“You . . . pushed me.”

Joe nodded regretfully. “You fell and hit your head. You probably have a concussion.”