She was in control of her life again.

But what about Governor Bledsoe? He would be all right, he had to be. He had cops everywhere, brushing his teeth for him, sleeping under his bed-no matter who he was sleeping with-hiding in his washroom off his big square office with its huge mahogany power desk. He would be all right. The crazy guy who had terrorized her until six days ago wouldn’t be able to get near him.

The main street in Riptide was West Hemlock. There wasn’t an East Hemlock unless someone wanted to drive into the ocean. She drove nearly to the end of the street to an old Victorian bed-and-breakfast called Errol Flynn’s Hammock. There was a widow’s walk on top, railed in black. She counted at least five colors on the exterior. It was perfect.

“I like the name,” she said to the old man behind the rich mahogany counter.

“Yep,” he said, and pushed the guest book toward her. “I like it, too. Been Scottie all my life. Sign in and I’ll beam you right up.”

She smiled and signed Becca Powell. She’d always admired Colin Powell. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she borrowed his name for a while. For a while, Becca Matlock would cease to exist.

She was safe.

But why, she wondered yet again, why hadn’t the police believed her? Still, they were providing the governor extra protection, so that was something.

Why?

2

New York City

June 15

They had Becca sit in an uncomfortable chair with uneven legs. She laid one hand on the scarred table, looking at the woman and two men, and knew they thought she was a nut or, very likely, something far worse.

There were three other men in the room, lined up against the wall next to the door. No one introduced them. She wondered if they were FBI. Probably, since she’d reported the threat on the governor, and they were dressed in dark suits, white shirts, blue ties. She’d never seen so many wing tips in one room before.