When she headed north on Gulf Boulevard in her Thunderbird, she noticed Annalie following in her Corolla, all the way to the east-bound turn-off at Walshingham Road. Typically, Peach would have turned there, too, on her way back to Seminole Park, but she didn’t want to be followed anymore, and she wasn’t ready to go home.

She kept driving through Indian Rocks Beach and finally turned east. She was still dizzy, and the pain got worse as she drove. Twenty minutes later, she found herself on the Frankenstein bridge headed back to Tampa. It was dark by the time she reached the city streets. The car, almost without her guiding it, took her to Diane Fairmont’s estate. The dark water of the bay was on her left. Across the street, the house was invisible behind the wall and the overgrown trees.

She got out of the car. Her skin was bruised and tender. She crossed Bayshore, and it never even occurred to her to walk down the side street to the main gate. Instead, she pushed into the brush and found a gnarled oak whose branches hung over the wall. Like a monkey, she climbed, swinging her legs onto the lowest branch and pulling herself up, setting off a loud exodus of birds. Twelve feet above the ground, she found a limb sturdy enough to support her weight, and she inched along the bough with the wall below her. When she was clear, she let her body dangle, and then she dropped. The ground was soft.

There were no sirens or alarms. No running feet. She beat away the mosquitoes and stamped through the bushes until she reached the open grass. Garden lights sparkled like fairies. She heard the splashing water of a fountain. Something loud snuffled near the ground – a raccoon, which watched her with glowing eyes and a hunched back. Everything else around her was pitch black. The estate was fifty yards away, and Peach headed for the marble steps.

She rang the bell, hearing rich Westminster chimes inside. A minute passed, and someone opened the door cautiously. She recognized Garth Oakes, who had his hand inside a coat, as if reaching for a gun. His clothes barely contained his muscles. His eyes pored over her and then narrowed with recognition.

‘You’re Deacon’s sister, aren’t you? What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I want to see Ms Fairmont.’

‘How’d you get inside?’

She didn’t answer. Garth let her in, and she kicked off her shoes, rather than track mud along the hardwood floor. She felt small and dirty in her torn clothes. He led her to a corner room, brightly lit, with piano music playing softly from hidden speakers. A wall of windows looked out on the gardens, but the exterior was dark. Diane Fairmont was inside. So was Caprice. They sat on opposite sides of a round table with laptops in front of both of them.