Someone wrenched open the passenger door. Peach’s torso spilled backward, and a hand caught her before she fell. She was conscious of Frank Macy rearing back, head banging on the hood as he ducked out of the other side of the car. Someone dragged her into the hot dusk, and in the swirling of pain and wind and color, she realized it was Annalie.

Annalie, holding her, propping her up.

Annalie, holding a gun that was trained on Frank Macy’s face.

She heard the squeal of car tires. A black Lexus roared, appearing behind Macy. The driver’s window was open, and Peach saw the Asian man from the bar, beckoning to Macy, a gun in his own hand. The two teenagers were in the back seat, looking terrified. It was a stand-off. Annalie didn’t fire. The Asian man didn’t fire. Macy took a tentative step backward, grinned, then opened the rear door of the Lexus and dove inside.

The car tore off toward the strip of road that fronted the Gulf.

The screech of tires faded. They were alone, the two of them, Annalie murmuring at her – are you okay, are you okay, are you okay. She still held the gun. Somewhere behind them, the surf sounded angry and loud.

Peach’s entire body turned to rubber. She felt herself melting, drowning in an ocean of relief. She let out a huge sob and collapsed into Annalie’s arms.

21

Gladiola Croft lived in the poor section of Lake Wales, in the shadow of the water tower. The houses looked like army barracks, all of them the same square one-story design and the same buff-and-brown color, like watery puke. She didn’t invite him inside. There were two lawn chairs by the front door, and he sat in one of them, hoping the fraying vinyl straps would hold him. A cracked flower pot sat on the window ledge.

‘You want some sweet tea?’ she asked.

‘I do.’

She disappeared into the small house, letting out the electronic noise of a video game being played inside. Teenagers on the steps of the next row house eyed him, his suit, and his Corvette. Telephone wires crisscrossed over his head, and dark clouds ran across the evening sky.

Gladiola returned, two ice-filled plastic glasses in her hand. He took the wet glass and drank a swallow. ‘Excellent,’ he said.

She squinted as the wind blew dust in her face. ‘They say Chayla’s gonna be bad.’

‘Yes.’

‘Wouldn’t be too sorry to see this place blow away, but it’s all we got.’

‘I understand.’

She gave him a look, which told him she really didn’t think he understood at all. It was the look that someone with no money gave someone who had plenty. He was familiar with it, and he didn’t feel guilty anymore. Life was a lottery. There were losing tickets and winning tickets.

‘How do you know Rufus Twill?’ Cab asked.