There was a lull in the weather, but the storm was still approaching, relentlessly, from the south. Antonia had no idea how long before it arrived. But Robert Prancer was no longer a threat. He was obviously in some discomfort from his bites and poison ivy and the kayak paddle to the solar plexus. His foot was bruised but Antonia hadn’t done any serious damage—she’d checked.

Her arm bandaged and throbbing, she applied ointment to his bites and offered him Benadryl, but he refused. She wasn’t surprised. As they’d tied him up, he’d spat out his lengthy list of grievances. He was convinced she’d betrayed him as a patient, as a co-worker at the hospital, as a man who had fallen in love with her from afar. He’d adored her, fantasized about her—or at least an idealized version of her. Supposedly not remembering his name, telling the police about his gunshot wound, taking up with Hank Callahan. It was one betrayal after another. Antonia was responsible for everything he’d done since that day she’d treated him in the E.R.

Hank discouraged her from trying to talk to him. At this point, Robert Prancer was a problem for the authorities.

But first, she thought, they all had to deal with Hurricane Hope.

Babs Winslow’s cottage had endured countless storms, but there were no guarantees it would survive this one. Antonia and Hank collected towels to tuck under the doors and windows in case water started seeping in, and they filled every jug, pitcher and bowl available with fresh water. She tried not to envision the roof blowing off, the cottage splintering with them inside.

“You betrayed me.” Robert’s voice was calm, almost matter of fact. “You’re a traitor to your profession. Bitch doctor. That’s what everyone’s going to call you. I’ll say it loud and clear at my trial. I won’t be convicted. You know that, don’t you?”

Hank picked up the roll of duct tape. “One more word, and you’re getting gagged.”

“Fuck you. Fuck the bitch doctor.”

That was all Hank needed. He ripped off a six-inch length of duct tape, but Prancer promised to keep quiet. Hank winked at Antonia. “He’ll be convicted.” But he went still, then grinned suddenly. “I hear a helicopter.”

“What? I don’t hear anything.” But she stopped, because now she heard it, a steady whir that she’d thought was the wind or the surf. “Do you think—I should get my flares.”

But she didn’t need them. When they ran out onto the front porch, the helicopter was already low over the island. Hank grinned. “Feels weird to be on this end of a rescue.”

“Carine. She must have sounded the alarm.”

“Tyler, too. He’d raise hell.”

“He’s in Florida—”