“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.”

“Was it Stephen she was frightened of?” Liz pressed.

“Frightened,” Heather repeated, looking at Liz, eyebrows drawn together. “Did I say she was frightened?”

“No, I guess you…didn’t. I just…I suppose I was just filling in the blanks.”

Heather’s frown deepened. She brought a hand to her neck, to the jeweled monogram that hung on a fine gold chain. “You know, that’s a good way to describe how she acted. But of who or what, I don’t know.”

Saturday, November 10

5:15 p.m.

Mark huddled in the corner of his rented room, eyes fixed on the door. His teeth chattered and he clutched a frayed blanket to his chest, unable to get warm despite the stifling heat of the room. He doubted he would ever be warm again.

Tara was dead. His unborn child, dead. Both murdered.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut, the horror of the past hours washing over him. He struggled to fit all the pieces together, to fill in some of the blanks. He had gone to meet her, as they’d planned. The garden gate had been open. He had eased through and softly called her name. She hadn’t answered.

Concerned and confused, he had crept farther into the garden, careful to be quiet, not wanting to awaken Pastor Tim or Stephen, the old caretaker. He had wondered if she had changed her mind. Or if her parents had caught her sneaking out and prevented her from meeting him.

Then things got fuzzy. He remembered seeing her lying there, covered in blood.

Mark pressed a fist to his mouth to hold back a howl of grief. From outside came the sounds of children playing in the park across the street. Although little more than a sandy patch of ground with a tired swing set and slide, the neighborhood kids didn’t seem to mind.

He struggled to focus on the children, their sounds of joy. He struggled to find a calm space to speak to the Lord, to ask for guidance and strength. To turn to the one, the only one, who could help him.

That place eluded him, and instead, his head filled once again with the events of the night before. He remembered he’d called Tara ’s name, he’d fallen to his knees and reached for her, desperate. She had been warm. When he moved her, a gurgling sound had come from her throat, and at first he had believed her alive. Then he had seen…her throat…the extent of the blood. He had realized the sound had been the wound talking, not her.

Sobbing, he had shot to his feet. His hands, knees, arms and chest had been wet with her blood. It had been everywhere. After that, things got murky again. He had run toward the garden gate, tearing through shrubbery, blinded by tears. He had tripped and fallen, dragged himself to his feet and fallen again. His hands had been cut, his face scratched. He thought he had heard a sound, someone behind him. Breathing.

Somehow, he had made it to his car, then here. Somehow, by God’s will.

Mark moaned and pressed himself closer into the corner. That had been hours ago, though he didn’t know how many. Through the night and into the morning he had waited for the police to come. He and Tara had kept their relationship a secret, but any number of people could have figured them out.

Mark’s teeth began to chatter again. They would think he had done it. Tara had been pregnant with his child, some would see that as a reason for him to do this. Get rid of her and the problem.

Sickness rushed up to his throat and he fought it back. Maybe the cops wouldn’t discover his and Tara ’s relationship? And even if they had, he had been at the Hideaway until 2:00 a.m. the night before. Surely-

Dear God, the IOU. Mark searched his memory. Had he told Rick why he was borrowing the money? Had he told him about Tara? He couldn’t remember. He had promised to pay him back as soon as he could. He’d told him it was an emergency.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to remember exactly what he had written. He had to remember. It was important. Maybe even a matter of life and-

Rick would seek him out. Because of the money. He could be here any moment. Mark was surprised he hadn’t shown up already.

He had expected to be long gone before Rick found the IOU. Mark pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Maybe it would be for the best. He would tell Rick everything; his friend would believe him.

Mark looked down at himself, taking in the unmistakable stains on his clothes, shoes and skin. With a growing sense of horror, he tipped his hands over. They were red from Tara ’s blood.

If Rick saw him this way, he would think he had done it. Everyone would.

He would go to jail.

The realization hit him with the force of a wrecking ball. With a cry, he scrambled to his feet and raced to his closet-size bathroom. The room consisted of a single sink, a slightly lopsided toilet and an old tub that had been fashioned into a shower with a barely adequate spray nozzle and plastic curtain that circled the tub. He pulled the shower curtain back and stepped into the tub to open the window behind it and let in some fresh air.

He cranked on the shower, then tore off his soiled clothes. He stepped under the stinging hot spray and started to scrub, so hard his skin burned.

He couldn’t go to Rick. Rick had been a cop. The ranking detective at the Key West Police Department was his best friend. Mark had no illusions where his loyalties would lie.

He had no one else to turn to on the island. He was alone.

Fear grabbed him by the throat. For a moment, Mark couldn’t breathe. He struggled to get a grip on his runaway emotions. He had to think this through. Had to stay calm, think clearly.

His survival depended on it.

He lathered his hair, thoughts racing. What were his options? Run, climb into his car and head out, ASAP. He had the six hundred bucks he had borrowed from Rick; it would take him a long way.

That felt wrong. It felt like an abandonment of Tara, of their child.

He shook his head. But they were dead. He couldn’t help them anymore.

But he could. Mark cut off the water and stepped out of the tub. Tara ’s friends had threatened to hurt her. She had been terrified of them.

They must have followed her to Paradise Christian’s garden last night. And killed her.

Fury rose up in him, displacing the last of his fear. He dried himself, dressed and then ran to the closet. He grabbed his few possessions and threw them into his duffel bag. He needed to get the hell out. Now. Before Rick showed up at his door. Before the police did. But he wouldn’t leave Key West.

Tara ’s friends had done this. Just as they had threatened they would. And somehow he was going to prove it.

Sunday, November 11

10:00 a.m.

Rick pounded on the door to Mark’s rented room. “Open up, Mark!” He waited, then pounded again. “Open up or I’ll go to the cops, you thieving son-of-a-bitch!”

He put his ear to the cardboard-thin door-no sound came from inside. He glanced down the dingy hallway, to the right, then left. His young employee lived in a building little better than a flophouse. The smell of frying bacon came from one of the units, as did the sound of a television tuned to a sports channel.

Dammit. He hadn’t really thought Mark would be here, but he had hoped.

Mark Morgan was long gone, his trip financed with Rick’s six hundred bucks.

He hadn’t discovered the missing cash and the bogus IOU until yesterday afternoon when he’d officially closed out Friday night’s register. By then he’d known it was already too late, but he figured he couldn’t not try. In truth, it wasn’t the money; it was how let down he felt. He had believed in that kid. He’d trusted him.