He had to be careful. He’d noticed the police cruising past the house of the Bollings, the surname the family had adopted, at frequent intervals. This in itself meant nothing—Vallejo Springs was a rich town and had a large, well-endowed constabulary—but Nagle noticed that the squad cars seemed to slow when they drove by.

He noticed too that there were far more police cars out and about now than last week. Which suggested to him what he already suspected: that Theresa was a town sweetheart. The cops would be on high alert to make sure nothing happened to her. If Nagle overstepped, they’d escort him to the town line and dump him in the dust, like an unwelcome gunslinger in some bad western.

He sat back, eyes on the front door, and thought about opening lines for his book.

Carmel-by-the-Sea is a village of contradictions, a mecca for tourists, the jewel in the crown of the Central Coast, yet beneath the pristine and the cute you’ll find the secretive world of the rich and ruthless from San Francisco, Silicon Valley and Hollywood….

Hm. Work on that.

Nagle chuckled.

And then he saw the SUV, a white Escalade, pulling out of the Bollings’ driveway. The girl’s aunt, Mary, was behind the wheel, alone in the car. Good. He’d never get close if Theresa was with her.

Nagle started his car, a Buick worth the price of the SUV’s transmission alone, and followed. Theresa’s aunt made a stop at a gas station, filled the tank with premium. She chatted with a woman at a nearby pump, driving a red Jaguar S-type. The aunt seemed harried. Her gray hair wasn’t brushed and she looked tired. Even from the edge of the parking lot, Nagle could make out dark circles under her eyes.

Pulling out of Shell, she drove through the quaint, unmistakably Californian downtown: a street adorned with plants and flowers and quirky sculptures and lined with coffee shops, understated restaurants, a garden center, an independent bookstore, a yoga place and small retail operations selling wine, crystals, pet supplies and L.L. Bean–style clothing.

A few hundred yards along the road was the strip mall where the locals shopped, anchored by an Albertsons grocery and a Rite Aid drugstore. Mary Bolling parked in the lot and walked inside the grocery store. Nagle parked near her SUV. He stretched, longing for a cigarette, though he hadn’t smoked in twenty years.

He continued the endless debate with himself.

So far he hadn’t transgressed. Hadn’t broken any rules.

He could still head home, no moral harm done.

But should he?

He wasn’t sure.

Morton Nagle believed he had a purpose in life, which was to expose evil. It was an important mission, one he felt passionate about. A noble mission.