A strong gust of wind shook the cottage and rattled the windows, and more debris and water blew in through the shot-up window. They’d have to do something about it or they’d end up with the whole Sound in on them. The National Weather Service radio was just static now, but Hank thought it was a fair bet the Cape and the islands were under a hurricane warning at this point—Hope was moving fast.

“We should concentrate on getting through this hurricane,” Antonia said. “At least Prancer won’t have a chance to surprise us again.”

Hank grabbed her beach towel and, staying low, stuffed it in the blow-out window above the sink. “Damn straight.”

“If we can’t get off this island, neither can Robert.” Her voice was less strained, and he knew she was focused on what they had to do now—not what she’d done, or should have done, weeks ago. “He’s not going to want to stay outside in a hurricane, not when he’s the one with the gun.”

“Then we have to get to him first.”

CHAPTER 10

Robert was up to his ankles in water. High tide, torrential rains, storm surge. Fierce wind that never stopped. He didn’t know if it was Hope or the leading edge of Hope or what, but he had no intention of staying outside one minute longer than was necessary. Babs Winslow’s little cottage awaited him, he thought, wrapping himself in his camouflage-style poncho. He’d also managed to grab a bright blue tarp that’d blown off the cottage porch and wrapped up in it, too.

He felt like he was in a body bag, but a part of him also savored his misery. His suffering would make killing the two in the cottage that much more satisfying.

Killing someone should have its costs. Granny had told him that the best things came with sacrifice and commitment, even suffering.

The rain and humidity were intolerable. He was clammy, sweating inside the poncho and tarp. He might as well have been breathing water. He coughed, tasting salt, and looked around for any dry ground where he could think straight and put together his plan of attack.

“Robert! Robert Prancer!”

He went still, crouching down low under the tree. It was Antonia Winter, calling his name as if in a dream. He stopped breathing and listened over the sounds of the rain and wind. She knew him now. She realized he was the one out here with the gun. The one who’d attacked her stud boyfriend.

Yes, Robert thought, he was in her thoughts now. He wasn’t just some mindless, nameless attacker on the loose. He was Robert Prancer. She could picture him, even if it was with his goddamn mop.

Perfect.