The lightning in the Gulf was not the usual jagged streaks, but a sudden glow of a cloud here and there. Like giant lightning bugs, I thought. The storms were still so far away, we heard no thunder as we walked toward the cars.

Frances and I helped Haley find Sister’s Jaguar and immediately ran into a problem; we couldn’t open the damn thing. Haley tried every key on the ring.

“Maybe Aunt Sister hasn’t left yet,” Haley said.

And then from the darkness behind us, a man’s voice said, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

The three of us froze. None of us had heard him approaching.

A large hand reached over and took the keys from Haley’s grasp. “You push this button on the keychain,” the man said. We heard the click as the door unlocked, and then the keys were in Haley’s hands again and the man was gone.

“Holy shit!” Frances said when we could breathe again.

“Some damn practical joker,” Haley said.

Nevertheless, we all piled into Sister’s car and Haley drove us to Frances’s car. Then I insisted that we follow Haley home. To her credit, she didn’t argue.

“I’ll bet that man thought he was funny as hell,” Frances said.

“Probably,” I agreed. We were driving along Old Highway 98 where the condos sit right on the road. Just like the serial killer in Major Bissell’s story, we could see right into many of the apartments where televisions flickered or families were eating supper. In one of the apartments, a woman was casually stepping out of a bathing suit. I wanted to yell at them all to close their blinds. And then I got angry at the man who had spooked us so, and because there really was a reason that these people, vacationing, happy, should be more careful.

We rode in silence for a few minutes. The traffic was light for a June night, but this part of the beach is usually quiet, family-oriented. Teenagers flock to The Miracle Strip in Panama City, and the older, nightclub group head the other way to Fort Walton. Folks along the Destin beaches rent a movie and order in a pizza. On Friday nights the Elks Club has a steak dinner for eight bucks that draws a crowd. But the men have been playing golf all day or fishing, and the women and children have been at the beach too long. It makes for early evenings. Even the restaurants, and there are some very nice ones, are usually empty by nine. There was no room here for violence, I thought. And yet, it happened.

“Millicent Weatherby left to go to the grocery store the morning she was killed. Right?” Frances asked.

“Fairchild said she went to get some tomato juice. Why?”

“What if the serial killer had been stalking her?”