The light changed to red. Colleen turned quickly, groping for the handle, but her captor saw the move for what it was and stomped on the gas pedal, hurtling through the light to a cacophony of car horns from narrowly averted cars in the intersection.

Sherri calmly turned and pointed the pistol at her passenger. “Try that again and I’ll shoot you right here.”

“Go ahead,” Colleen blurted. “Kill me. Isn’t that what you intend to do anyway?”

“None of your damn business,” Sherri snapped. She drove onward, with the gun clutched tightly in her right hand.

Colleen saw a jagged flash of lightning. For the first time she noticed that the sky had darkened, with ominous gray clouds poised just to the west, over the Gulf. Thunder rumbled overhead, and rain began to pelt the car’s hood.

It was the kind of typical late-summer Florida thunderstorm that Colleen had always loved. As a child, she would stand transfixed at the front window of her parents’ house, staring out at the light show. Now, she gloomily reflected that this storm would probably be her last.

They drove through Madeira Beach, and then Treasure Island, where Sherri made a sudden sharp left turn.

Crushed oyster shells crunched beneath the Chevette’s tires as they pulled into the abbreviated driveway of the cottage, which was overshadowed by the shaggy branches of a pair of towering Australian pines.

Colleen, of course, had driven past this house many times, at night, when Brice’s cruiser was parked out front. Once, she’d parked in the driveway of a vacant house across the street, watching while all the lights in the house blinked off, wondering if that meant he and his wife were going to bed, imagining what they would do there, torturing herself with all the what-ifs.

“Stay there,” Sherri ordered, after she’d cut the engine. She came around to the passenger side of the car and unceremoniously yanked Colleen to her feet. She looked around, cautiously, but the narrow road was empty. Nobody was about. She nudged Colleen forward, through the rain, toward the front door.

“Open it,” she ordered, pushing Colleen into the house. Lightning struck then, so close that both women jumped, and the smell of cordite hung in the steamy, ion-charged air around them.

54

Drue was barefoot, dressed in cut-off yoga pants and her favorite raggedy SURF ALASKA T-shirt when she heard the doorbell ring. She checked the time and frowned. It was five-thirty. Her hair was still wet from the shower, and she was operating on about four hours of sleep and not in the mood for company.

Her mood changed when she opened the front door.

“Ben! I thought you were at a gaming thing.”