It was time to go, but when she returned to the living room, she saw that she was too late. Blurred headlights flashed through the rain and cut across the walls. Through the blinds, she saw Annalie’s Corolla pulling up in front of the house. Peach froze. The car door swung open, and Annalie ducked into the storm.

Peach stood in the middle of the living room, watching and waiting. Annalie hoisted one leg over the low fence, then the other, and she dropped into the rain-speckled lake surrounding the house. She examined the place with both hands on her hips. Her long black hair was plastered to her face and neck.

There was nowhere to hide. Annalie would see her if she tried to make a run for her Thunderbird. She also realized that she didn’t want to run. Not now. Not from this woman. She wanted to confront her about what she’d done. She wanted to know who else was involved. She wanted answers.

Annalie headed for the porch, and Peach finally sprang into action. Looking around for something to defend herself, she scooped up a pink glass bottle from the floor and clutched the neck in her fist. She stepped lightly to the bedroom and hid behind the open door. She held her breath, listening.

The wooden screen door opened and slammed shut on rusted hinges. Footsteps climbed the front steps. She heard the knob turning on the front door, and then the storm grew louder, as if it were inside the house with her.

Annalie called out: ‘Peach? It’s me.’

Her voice sounded normal. Friendly. When Peach didn’t answer, Annalie called again, but her tone was deeper and more cautious. ‘Peach? Are you here? Are you okay?’

Peach’s fingers were slippery with sweat. The glass bottle was hard to hold. The storm hammered the roof above her, and the bedroom felt damp and hot. A cockroach crept up the wall near her face. She had to take a breath, and she tried to do it silently, but her chest felt tight with fear.

A sharp metallic click snapped the silence from the other room. She knew that sound, because she’d heard it often enough when Deacon was manipulating his own weapon. It was the slide of a semi-automatic handgun being racked. Annalie had her pistol in her hand and a round in the chamber. It was ready to fire.

‘Peach?’ she called again.

Annalie headed for the bedroom where Peach was hiding. Her squishy footprints sank into the wet carpet, one after another. At the doorway, she stopped. Peach couldn’t see her, but she was so close that Peach could hear water dripping from her hair. The window was cracked open, causing the wind to whistle and moan. Rain spat through the gap.

Peach hoisted the bottle over her head.