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Back The Night Bird
Chapters (60)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication
  4. CONTENTS
  5. Start Reading
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. FROM THE AUTHOR
  59. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  60. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“It doesn’t sound like you imagined it. Do you remember the car?”

“I want to say it was a Cutlass, but I’m not sure. It had smoked windows. Black, I think.”

“Could the car have been following you after you left the party?”

“I guess. I never looked back, so I don’t know. It’s not like the guy did or said anything while we were stuck on the bridge. He just opened the window and stared at me.”

“You’re sure it was a man?” Frost asked.

“I assume so, but I guess I don’t really know for sure.”

“Did this person get out on the bridge deck when Brynn began behaving strangely?”

Lucy shrugged. “If he did, he didn’t have the mask on. I was too freaked out to notice who came out of which cars. By the time I even thought about it again, the car was gone.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think it means anything?” Lucy asked.

“I don’t know. It’s strange, but the whole thing is strange.” Frost added, “You said you’ve never heard of a woman named Monica Farr. Are you sure about that?”

“Pretty sure. The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Have you or Brynn ever been to the San Francisco Film Centre at the Presidio?”

“No, I’ve never been there. I don’t think Brynn has, either, at least not since I’ve known her. Why are you asking me these questions? What does this have to do with Brynn?” When Frost didn’t answer, Lucy went on: “You know I’m just going to Google this woman when I get home.”

Frost knew that was true. There were no secrets anymore.

“Okay, the fact is, Brynn’s not the first person to go crazy like this,” he told her. “Two months ago, a woman named Monica Farr had a similar breakdown during a wedding reception at the Film Centre. She died, too.”

3

3

“Come on, Shack,” Frost said.

He scooped a hand under the small cat’s belly and tramped up the steps of the Russian Hill house where he and Shack lived. It was a two-story brown stucco home on a high dead-end spur of Green Street. Inside, it had a multi-million-dollar view of the bay. The furnishings were dark and baroque, as if the house had been decorated by an eighty-year-old woman with European tastes. Which it had.

Frost blinked with exhaustion. It was four in the morning. He didn’t bother turning on a light, because the city lights through the bay window allowed him to see. He was hungry; he hadn’t eaten anything since a hot dog near the Moscone Center eighteen hours earlier. When he’d left in the morning, the refrigerator had been empty, but he made his way to the kitchen and opened the fridge door anyway. He grinned, seeing four small silver trays topped with aluminum foil.

Care package.