She didn’t plan to take much with her. Just toiletries and cosmetics. Everything else she’d buy new, when she arrived in Atlanta. She had a second thought then, and her lips curved in a dreamy smile.

Colleen reached back into the closet and pulled out the needlepoint racquet cover that had been a birthday gift from her mother-in-law, Rosemary, who was well aware that Colleen despised tennis. She unzipped the case and felt around inside, but the only thing she found was the Wilson Chris Evert racquet. It was in like-new condition, because she’d never used the thing.

She felt goose bumps rise on her arms. The black push-up bra and the black lace garter belt were gone. She’d hidden them there just last Thursday night, away from the prying eyes of Estelle, her once-a-month cleaning lady. But Estelle wasn’t due back until next week.

Allen. He’d found her secret hiding place. How many of her other secrets had he uncovered? The realization changed things. She had to get out of this place. Now. Right this minute. She picked up the Princess phone from her nightstand and dialed Brice’s house. She didn’t care anymore about his friend’s threats. She needed to hear Brice’s voice, one more time.

The phone rang once, twice, then three times. Someone picked up at the other end.

“Hello?” his wife said. This time, instead of hanging up, for some reason, Colleen didn’t end the connection. She breathed softly, listening.

“Hello,” Sherri repeated. “Hello?” There was a long, drawn-out pause. “I know it’s you,” his wife said, her voice hoarse. “I know where you live and I know where you work…”

Colleen didn’t wait to hear more. She slammed the receiver down, grabbed the train case and fled the perfect house.

Friday morning, at precisely 11:35, she made her way to the teller’s cage at the Florida Federal Savings and Loan branch four blocks from her office.

She could forge Allen’s signature in her sleep, but just in case, she practiced copying it over and over and over again in her room at the Ramada Inn, where even the pills she’d taken from work didn’t help her to sleep at all the night before.

“Hi, Mrs. Hicks.” He was the youngest teller on the line, not even twenty-one, with wispy blond hair and a sprinkling of pimples on his cheeks. He was also the only male; the rest of the tellers were a bunch of sour-faced old biddies, who’d probably faint if they ever saw a penis.

Not Christopher, though. She bet he’d seen more than his share of dick in his young days.

“Good morning, Christopher,” she said crisply. With her fingertips, she pushed her savings passbook and the withdrawal slip across the scarred marble counter.

His eyes widened when he saw the amount of the withdrawal. “Wow,” he said.