She stood and hurled the fire starter down the hallway behind him. She watched as it twirled end over end, almost as if in slow motion.

The shooter, now standing in the bedroom, whirled around, the gun extended before him.

And in the next moment, the flame hit the gas.

Boom!

Kendra instinctively shielded Margaret from the explosion, using her body to block the raining splinters. She looked up.

Black smoke billowed down the hallway, pulsing with light from dozens of dancing, flickering flames.

No one was running out of the bedroom, but that didn’t mean they were safe.

“Come on,” Kendra said. “Out!”

Kendra and Margaret bolted for the stairs.

*   *   *

BLICK PULLED HIMSELF TO HIS feet, still not sure if he was in one piece. His eyes stung from the smoke, which had choked off most of the breathable air.

How long had he been unconscious? Probably only a matter of seconds. Any longer, and the smoke would have killed him.

His ears were ringing, and the left side of his face throbbed. He cupped his palm over his cheek, and it felt cold and wet.

Blood.

His ears were blocked, ringing, but he thought he could make out the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It had to be them, those bitches.

But he couldn’t hope to catch up. Not now.

Now he just needed to stay alive long enough to make it out himself. He pushed himself through the smoke and felt his way down the hallway until he reached the stairs.

The smoke was much lighter here.

One step, then the next. And over and over until he finally reached the ground floor. The front door was open.

Were the bitches waiting for him on the other side?

Doubtful, but possible. He had lost his gun in the blast, but he had a backup. He slowly, painfully, reached for the Beretta in his ankle holster. He held it in front of him and cautiously moved through the front doorway. No one was there.

Wait. He caught a glimpse of two women disappearing down the street. There was something familiar about the smaller woman …

His vision suddenly fogged, and he realized it was from blood dripping into his eyes. He used his sleeves to wipe it away.

Who had done this to him? Who had taken that journal?

The island. Jane MacGuire. The smaller woman was the one who was with MacGuire when he had taken his shot. Her name would be easy enough to check.

But that hadn’t been Jane MacGuire with her in the house tonight. Who was it?

He moved to the police car, where the officer’s logbook still rested on the hood. Blick flipped through it, leaving bloody fingerprints on each page. Screw it. Get the information and get out. He could see neighbors pouring out of the houses into the street. There would be cops arriving any minute. At last he reached the final set of entries, where the most recent visitors were listed.

There, finally, the last name, the name he was looking for.

Dr. Kendra Michaels.

*   *   *

KENDRA GLANCED IN THE REARVIEW mirror as she sped down State Route 23 in her rental car. “Keep an eye out, Margaret.”

“I’ve been watching.” Margaret twisted back around in the passenger seat. “Though I don’t know what I’m looking for. We don’t have any idea what kind of car he was driving. You thinking he’s following us?”

“I have no idea. I doubt it. But I don’t want to be surprised.”

“Do you think he might be…” Margaret’s voice trailed off.

“Dead?”

Margaret nodded.

“Not likely. The blast wasn’t that intense. I wouldn’t mind if it took his arm or leg off, though.”

It had been less than ten minutes since they had bolted from Doane’s safe house, and Kendra’s heart was still pounding hard. They had seen that poor officer’s corpse on the front sidewalk, and narrow footprints on the ground of the lawn beside it indicating that his killer had coldly stepped over him on the way into the house. Then Margaret had grabbed her suitcase from behind the bushes bordering Doane’s neighbor’s house and they had jumped into Kendra’s car.

Two fire engines, flashers on and sirens wailing, roared past them from an opposing traffic lane.

Margaret settled back in her seat. “He deserves whatever he gets for killing that officer. I didn’t like his voice. It kind of scared me. I’ve never met anyone who sounded that … cold. Have you?”

“A few.”

“I guess I should have expected it from the man who shot Jane.”

Kendra’s gaze flew to Margaret’s face. “What?”

“It was Terence Blick. We only caught a fleeting glimpse as he ran toward the bedroom, but I recognized that red hair and freckles.”

“Recognized from what?”

“Jane and Joe had a file on him from the security video on Summer Island. They shared it with me while I was at the lake cottage.” She made a face. “Grudgingly. Joe’s a little less protective than Jane but not much.”

“You might have mentioned it to me.”

“We were busy trying to get away from him. But now I’ve mentioned it.” She smiled slyly. “But I would have thought you would have figured it out anyway. You’re so logical and stuff. After all, Blick was Doane’s accomplice. Who else would have shown up at that house?”

“Ask your friend, Carlie, the German shepherd,” Kendra said sourly.

Margaret chuckled. “Next time.” Her smile faded. “You know, I think he was going to kill us no matter what we did.”

“It’s a distinct possibility.” Kendra pulled the worn-moleskin notebook from her beltline and handed it to Margaret. “And we know he was willing to kill to get his hands on this.”

Margaret thumbed through the pages. “Is that what those agents have been looking for?”

“I don’t think so. All I’ve been hearing about is a disk.” Kendra pulled off the road and parked in the illumination of a streetlight. “At first glance, it looks like a college kid’s journal, packed with random scribbling, painfully obvious insights, and pretentious poetry.”

“That’s probably what you would think of my journals.”

“It’s also what I think of the ones I wrote when I was a teenager. None of us are immune.”

“Yes, but I don’t think anyone would ever try to kill anybody for ours. Maybe if we tried to force them to read them.” Margaret studied a page for a moment. “Kevin. This belonged to Kevin. He was Doane’s son, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, it’s not a disk. Do you think it could have the names of those embedded agents in code?”

Kendra flipped through a few more pages. “Maybe. Not that we have any reason to trust anything Blick said, but he did say it wasn’t the names at all.” She nibbled thoughtfully at her lower lip. “Did you get the impression that he thought it was something more important?”

Margaret nodded. “Could be. His exact words were … that we didn’t know what we have here.” She shrugged. “I thought it was weird he’d be so open about it.”

“Not so weird. Blick wasn’t supposed to be the brains in the partnership with Doane.” She lifted her gaze to Margaret’s face. “And he didn’t intend to let us live after he got his hands on this journal. He thought he’d be safe to say what he liked.” Her glance fell to the journal again. “Well, I’d certainly like to find out why it’s so important.” She paused at one of the pages and stared in disgust at an entry. “This one’s a letter to one of his victims, promising that her murder would ensure her of remaining forever pure and unspoiled.”

“Sick.”

“And here’s one where he’s boasting and congratulating himself for besting the police.” She looked up. “Okay, not the usual teen angst. But there has to be something else here.”

“Should we turn it in to the FBI or maybe to Venable?”

Kendra hesitated. “Eventually.”

“Why not now?”

“Because their interests and ours may not be entirely in sync.”

Margaret gave her a questioning look.

“I don’t like it that Venable told Quinn about some disk and not this journal.”