“Put the racket down and come over here. Please.”

Justine did, walking through the gate into Bobby’s arms. He held her for a good long few minutes, the feel of his strong hands on her back almost putting her into a trance.

Then Bobby said, “What would you like? Hot tub, breakfast, or bed?”

“All three-in that order.”

Bobby took off his robe, draped it around Justine’s shoulders, and walked with her toward the lanai. “Did you find anything interesting?”

“Apart from this murder being another freakin’ tragedy?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing I can tell you. Not yet.”

“Let me put it this way, then, Justine. Have you got a new theory? Anything at all? Where are you on the case?”

Justine walked up the teak steps to the hot tub, dropped the robe and her underthings. Then she took Bobby’s hand as she stepped into the steaming water.

She sat down on the seat and leaned back as his arm went around her. She closed her eyes and exhaled, letting the water do its work.

“You must have a theory,” Bobby said.

“Here it is. The killer has multiple personality disorder.” Justine sighed. “And every one of his personalities is psychopathic.”

Chapter 9

MY DREAMS WEREN’T exactly identical, but they were all variations on the same disturbing theme. There was an explosion: sometimes a house blew up, or a car, or a helicopter. I was always carrying someone away from the fire toward safety: Danny Young, or Rick Del Rio, or my father, or my twin brother-or maybe the person in my arms was myself.

I never made it out of the fire zone alive. Not once.

My cell phone vibrating on the night table woke me from this morning’s nightmare, as it had done almost daily for about three years.

Already, I was swamped with dread, that sickening falling sensation that hits you before you even know why.

And then my brain caught up with my gut, and I knew if I didn’t pick up the phone, it would ring again and again until I answered.