Someone off-camera was directing her to step to the side so that the early-morning sun didn’t reflect off the lens. As the camera panned to follow the young reporter, there was a growing crowd of neighbors gawking at the scene. Nothing like this had ever happened east of the intracoastal. Police activity of this nature was much more common in West Palm Beach or Riviera Beach. Most of the locals thought Palm Beach was immune to serious crime.

The reporter motioned for the camera to focus back on her and said, “We’ve heard reports that the town police chief has asked for assistance from the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office in case they have to make a forced entry into the house.”

In the background, near the front of the house, a police officer started to speak into a megaphone. The reporter stopped talking so the camera operators could pick up the audio and show the police officer crouched behind a cruiser.

“Martin Hawking, come out of the front door with your hands up and empty. No one will hurt you if you do it now.” There was about a twenty-second break. Then the police officer said, “Come out right now, Mr. Hawking.”

Chapter 1

I somehow managed to slide onto a stool at one of the prime high-top tables near the front door of the Palm Beach Grill. From here you could see the bar, get waited on easily, and keep an eye out for anyone of note who wandered through the main entrance. Landing this high-top was close to a miracle on a Friday evening at seven o’clock, when the place was clogged with Palm Beachers. Julie, the sweet and personable maître d’, stopped by, and I gave her a hug.

I needed a night out and a few laughs with my friend Lisa Martz. Like me, Lisa was going through a rough divorce, but she’d hit the ground running and never looked back. The whole thing had struck me a little harder, mainly because it had come out of left field. Lisa was happy to be out of her prison, whereas I’d never thought I was in one.

Lisa signaled to the waitress that we needed another round of margaritas.

I laughed and said, “That’ll be my third drink tonight! I’ll have to run twenty miles to burn it off tomorrow.”

Lisa put her hand on my forearm and said in her sweet Alabama accent, “Don’t even talk to me about losing weight. You look fabulous. When Brennan asked for a divorce, it was the best thing that ever happened to you. Everything about you has changed. You look like a cover model with those cheekbones and that smile. If you tell me you’re a natural blonde, I might have to stab you with a fork right now.”

I had no desire to be stabbed, so I kept my mouth shut. I appreciated my friend’s attempt to build my confidence. The fact is, I had been going across the bridge and working out at CrossFit in West Palm Beach, as well as jogging on the beach a couple more days a week. My husband, who was six years older than me, had turned forty a few months ago and decided I was too old for him. He may have phrased it differently, but I’m no idiot. It stunned me then and it still stings now. But I was making every effort not to let that loser dictate the rest of my life. As my dad used to say, “Life is tough enough, don’t be a dumbass.”