I’m so busy cycling through these thoughts that I nearly miss my turn. Luckily the closest car is a quarter mile back when I brake so fast my flashlight flies onto the floor.

I drive a mile past three mailboxes belonging to houses deep enough in the trees that I can barely make out their lights. Within a few weeks only one of them may be occupied as the other residents leave for warmer climates. I don’t look forward to winter, when it gets so cold that Madge says logging rigs drive right across the frozen lake. When I’ll be forced to drive to the Dorito or, much more likely, hole up until a thaw.

Maybe that’s what I had in mind all along.

The moon’s full, sending a streak of serrated light across the lake when I park near the end of the point. I unhook the seat belt and fish for the flashlight on the passenger side floor, the edge of the console digging into my ribs.

I hear the vehicle before I see it, the crunch of tires on gravel road driving far too fast. When I straighten, my rearview mirror nearly blinds me as headlights barrel down the drive.

There is only one person I know aggressive or desperate enough to have followed me here—presumably to explain himself under the misguided assumption that I care.

A familiar vehicle skids to a stop, barely missing my back fender. And now I am pissed.

I shove out of my truck before he can even cut the engine, and storm to the driver’s side door as it opens.

“You have ten seconds to leave before I call the cops!” I yell. I don’t own a cell phone, but he doesn’t need to know that.

That’s when I realize—too late—that the SUV I mistook in the darkness for a Cherokee is actually a Pathfinder. And when I shine my flashlight right in his face, it isn’t Luka who emerges from the vehicle. It’s the man I saw with him.

Two thoughts slice through my mind at once: That there was indeed a drug deal and he now knows I saw it. Or that he really is Luka’s jealous boyfriend and has followed me home to accuse me.

Either way, this isn’t going to be good.

“You need to leave,” I say, backing several steps.

He raises his hands as though confronting a wild animal. He’s taller than I thought, with a military build and short hair to match. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Yeah, because that’s exactly what people say when they aren’t thinking about it.

“You’re trespassing. Get back in your car and go.” My hands are shaking, the beam of my flashlight jagging around his head.

“You’re in danger. You need to come with me. Now.”