Rae returned with Ruby’s journal in one hand and in the other, a broad red leather-bound book. “Mommy, look what I found. It’s blank. It’s a journal. Nobody’s written in it. Can I have it?”

Kellen took it and leafed through. “Where did you find it?”

“In the attic on the desk.”

Kellen looked Rae up and down. “I don’t remember this.” She really didn’t, but why would Rae lie? “Has it always been there?”

Rae shrugged. “I guess. Can I use it?”

“I don’t see why not.” Kellen handed it back. “Writing in a journal is a great idea. I did when I was your age.”

“I’ll be like Ruby!”

Max said, “I sincerely hope your story is a little more upbeat.”

Rae sat in her chair, pulled the salad close and ate all the tomatoes and cucumbers. “Can I have another slice of pizza?”

They all had a second slice of pizza.

With a sigh of satisfaction, Max leaned back in his chair, took a sip of his beer, and said, “That storm. The typhoon. It’s one helluva big storm, and it’s aimed right at the California coast.”

“Will we be in trouble?” Kellen asked.

“Maybe.” Max lifted his hands to show his doubt. “Depends. On everything. Whether it stays on the same track and whether it maintains intensity. We’ve got the solar panels that feed the generators. If the storm lasts too long, we’ll lose power. Which is okay except—no water, no sewer.”

“Do we have to go back?” Rae had been fed and sounded less eager to leave.

Max said, “We’ll see.”

24

“My wife…” Dylan Conkle sat in front of the fire pit on the beach at sunset and threw driftwood into the flames. “My wife doesn’t respect me.”

“I saw that.” Mara watched him through eyes narrowed to evil slits. Not that he noticed, or was sober enough to recognize her intentions if he did. “What’s her name again?”

He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Jamie.”

“Right. Jamie doesn’t appreciate you as she should. You’re her man. You provide for her. You handle the folks up at the big house for her.”

“She hates them,” Dylan mumbled.

“She doesn’t appreciate how you make her life easier.” Mara lit a joint and passed it to Dylan.

“Where’d you get this?” He examined the weed with great interest.

“At the university.” At the prison. “It’s dusted with something special. It’ll make you crazy.” She drew out the word to make crazy sound like fun.

“Really?” Dylan took a long drag. “What kind of crazy?”

“Killin’ crazy.” She dug around in her bag and found the Chivas Regal Owen had been so impressed he could afford. “Wash it down with this.”

Dylan lifted the bottle and swallowed, then coughed up a lung, then took another swallow and sighed. “That’s good stuff.”