Kellen tried to ride through the tall, wild grasses. Yet a challenge in good times was impossible in this storm. She was forced to take to the paths. She stayed low on the bike to avoid detection.

But where to go?

She smiled unpleasantly. She knew where she wanted to be, where she might find a weapon to beat Mara at her own game.

She arrived at Paradise Cove, and Mara’s camp, hidden under one of the few rocky overhangs on the island. She combed through the backpack and the tent, the sleeping bag, through containers and papers and all the paraphernalia of a working botanist. She hoped for a weapon. She needed a weapon.

But no. No weapon. No firearms, no knives. Nothing Kellen could use to attack and defeat Mara.

No hope.

She picked up the clipboard. It had been carefully placed in a large plastic bag and sealed to preserve the contents. From what Kellen could see, Mara had been telling the truth; she’d been doing the work an intern should do.

But as to the rest of this stuff—Kellen smashed it. She flung it off the cliff into the roaring ocean. She destroyed the campsite, not from spite, but because she hoped Mara would come here and understand the message; Kellen would destroy Mara and everything she was.

She mounted her bicycle and rode again, toward the Conkles’. Going this way, she fought the wind, and every half mile a gust took the wheels out from under her. The fourth time, she remained on the ground for too long. She’d landed right on those bruised ribs. It took long moments to regain her breath, and that Taser had undermined her strength.

But so what? She had to keep moving. She had to survive.

She needed a weapon. There had to be something in the cottage. Jamie didn’t approve of firearms, and God forbid Dylan had access to one, but surely somewhere the old caretaker had had a rifle hidden in the attic or in a box in the closet.

As she got closer to the Conkles’ tiny house, she used the rain and the wind to hide her approach. As she came around the corner, she kept low, watched for someone’s recent footprints. Glancing up at the house, she saw greenery draped across the roof. A branch had blown off one of the wide and ancient live oaks.

No, more than a branch. My God.

She put her feet down, stopped herself, and stared.

The whole tree had toppled. The impact split the cottage in two. The house Kellen intended to search had disintegrated into a mass of dried and splintered boards, rusted nails and shreds of insulation. Wind had ripped open the attic, dismantled cupboards and furniture, left everything inside open to the elements.

Whatever weapons Kellen might have been able to glean had sunk into the mud.