The tips of my fingers and toes are tingling. There’s an eerie feeling of energy being restored. Cell by cell, my system is repairing itself, releasing the poison through my pores.

But it’s not enough. Not yet.

Darryl is watching me with keen eyes. Best to keep him talking.

“What happened with Barbara Franco? Why did you kill Trish’s friend?”

There’s a pause while uncertainty casts a shadow over his face. But his need to brag wins out over caution. It’s what I’m counting on.

He shakes his head, frowning. “I know what you’re asking. Did we kill her for a snuff film? That’s the kind of thing that gives our business a bad name. In the first place, snuff films are urban legend. They don’t exist. They don’t have to. Technology makes it unnecessary to take that kind of risk. Special effects nowadays-”

He’s ramping up for a lecture. Jesus. “I don’t care about special effects. What happened to Barbara?”

The irritation in my voice sends a second flash of doubt skittering across Darryl’s face. He reaches for the stake and starts to get up. “You wouldn’t be trying to fool me with all these questions, would you?” he asks.

It’s now or never. I heave myself up and leap as far away from Darryl as I can. He comes after me, lunging across the room. I can’t make the door. The only other way out is the window, shrouded in heavy drapery. I run at it full speed and clutching the drape, plunge headfirst through the glass.

I strike the ground and roll. Glass fragments shower around me, but the curtain protects my face and head. The fresh air hits me with the clarifying force of a douse of cold water. I let the curtain fall and run.

Darryl is howling at the window. I glance back once to see him trying to follow me, blood seeping from wounds on his arms and legs as he snags himself on broken glass. Too bad it’s not his neck.

Then I’m off, racing the wind.

Chapter Forty

I keep running, away from Darryl and his carefully prepared, poisoned lair. Once I get across the freeway bridge, I stop. I don’t have my purse; it’s in Bradley’s car. Which means I don’t have my cell phone to call for a ride or to alert Williams to what’s transpired. The only thing I can do is continue to police headquarters on foot.

The run is actually restorative. I pump my arms to the rhythm of my stride, and by the time I’ve reached my destination, I feel as if I’ve worked all the toxin out of my system. I feel strong and alert and very, very angry.

And as luck would have it, what should I see parked in front of police headquarters but the Fairlane. I peer inside, but as I suspect, Bradley has either ditched my purse somewhere or put it in the trunk. Since I have an overwhelming urge to do violence, I decide to check the trunk. I grip the ridge with both hands and peel back the metal until the trunk is doubled back on itself. I want to rip the thing right off, but somebody might be watching.

My purse is inside, tossed into a corner, to be planted somewhere incriminating, no doubt, when the time is right. I snatch it up, wondering whether to alert Williams that I’m on my way up, or to just appear and watch Bradley squirm.

You can’t go up, Anna.

I whirl around.Casper?

You have to get to Ryan. Bradley suspects he’s at the cottage. He’s on his way there now.

Casper’s voice is different somehow. There’s an urgency I’ve never heard before.I have no way to get there.

From the corner across the street, a car engine sparks to life. I turn again, toward the sound.

Anna, remember what I told you before. You are at a crossroads. The path you choose now determines what you are to become.

For a fleeting moment, excitement overshadows my concerns. I’m going to meet Casper. I must be.

I wait for the car to pull away from the curb.

It doesn’t.

Impatience flares.Damn it, Casper. Come on.

There’s no answer, and no movement from the car. Furious now, I cross the street and jerk the car door open.

The engine is running, the keys dangling from the ignition. The driver’s seat is vacant.

Shit. You can’t keep doing this.

But I know I’ll get no answer. And no satisfaction. I slam into the front seat and peel away from the curb with a screech of tires. I hope this is his car. And that I burn every bit of rubber off the damned tires.

The car is a little Miata, responsive, fast. I dodge morning commuter traffic and head for Mission Beach. When I get to the cottage, I use the alley in back to scope things out. There is a car parked in front of my garage. I pull behind it, blocking the escape route. I don’t recognize the car, a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows. I wonder who this car belongs to, but I don’t waste much time pondering the question.

I test the back door. It’s locked. I can’t see much through the windows, just into the kitchen and a hallway beyond. I also can’t hear any voices. I’m just about to make my way around the house to the front when the brush of a hand on my arm makes me jump.

I’ve got his throat in my hands before the brain registers that he is no threat and reason takes over. “Jesus, Ryan.” I squeeze him against my chest in a hug of relief and apology. “What are you doing?”

He puts a finger to his lips and gestures toward the house. “That FBI man is here,” he whispers. “He’s got someone with him. He said I should go with them, but I don’t trust him. I told him I had to get my stuff and snuck out the back. I’ve been hiding in the garage, waiting for you.”

An almost parental impulse to remind him that I told him not to let anyone in flares, but it dissipates just as quickly. This is not the time for scolding. Instead, I turn his shoulders and push him toward the gate. “Your instincts are good. Let’s get out of here.”

We duck away from the door and are almost at the car when a shout from above snaps our attention to the balcony outside my bedroom. Bradley is there, his expression one of mingled confusion and rage.

“Stop.” His voice bellows across the yard. He’s fumbling for something under his jacket.

I push Ryan toward the car and we dive inside. A bullet hits just below the windshield and is deflected onto the glass. The safety glass morphs into a starburst, the pattern radiating outward like an intricate spider web.

I shove Ryan down and crank over the engine.

The second shot passes through the glass and slams into the console. It’s almost impossible to see through the windshield now. I put the car in reverse and use the side mirrors to back out of the alley. Once on the street, I punch at the glass until the windshield falls away. People passing on the sidewalk stop and stare. From the corner of my eye, I see Bradley and a second man running down the alley toward us.

My foot slams the accelerator and we’re gone before they reach the road.

For a kid, Ryan keeps his cool. He’s holding onto the panic handle on the car door with a grip that’s turning his knuckles white, but he’s not cowering in the seat or yelling distracting questions or demanding to go home.

I like him more and more.

But what am I going to do with him?

It will be only a matter of minutes before Bradley comes after us. I have to ditch the car. Straight ahead is Belmont Park, home of the Giant Dipper Coaster and the Plunge, a huge saltwater pool. It’s either an eighty-year-old treasure or a past-its-prime eye sore, depending on your point of view. But it’s a busy, crowded amusement park and just what I need.

I pull into the parking lot and look for the right spot. I find it between two big SUV’s. Perfect concealment for the tiny Miata. Ryan and I jump out and I herd him toward the entrance. We don’t go inside, but rather watch from a protected vantage point beside the box office and wait for the black SUV to appear.