“Come by tomorrow.”

“Really? A thrill of a lifetime. I’m not exaggerating. Simone, any chance I could see your studio while I’m there?”

“Sure. Not you.” She pointed at Reed. “I’m working on a sculpture of Reed. He doesn’t get to come into my studio until it’s finished.”

Essie nearly choked on her tea. “You got Reed to pose?”

“She vamped me.”

“Whatsa ‘vamped’?” Dylan wanted to know.

“It’s, like, if Pink Power Ranger got mind-control powers.”

“That’d be awesome!”

“It really is,” Simone agreed. “The power of the mind’s a strong weapon against evil, like the wicked Rita Repulsa.”

Reed sat back, stared. “You know Power Rangers?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I was Pink Power Ranger for Halloween when I was five or six.”

“She vamped me into getting her the costume,” CiCi confirmed. “I have pictures.”

“I’ve gotta see. I absolutely have got to see.”

“I’m adorable.” Simone stabbed the last grilled pepper on her plate.

“I just bet.”

“Can we go to the beach now?” Dylan tugged at his father’s arm. “I finished all my vegables.”

“Ta-bles.”

“I finished my ta-bles. Can we?”

“I vote for it.” Reed’s phone rang in his pocket. He hitched up, took it out. After a glance at the display, Simone saw his gaze cut to Essie. “Sorry, I need to take this. Don’t worry about the dishes. Take the kid to the beach. I’ll catch up.”

He started out of the room. “Chief Quartermaine.”

Simone put an easy smile on her face, rose. “Go ahead and head to the beach. CiCi can show you the best way. I’ll wait for Reed.”

“Yay! The doggies, too. Let’s go.”

Essie gave Simone a subtle nod. “Dylan’s personal paradise, dogs and the beach,” she said. “Yes, let’s go.”

As they left, Dylan and the dogs in the lead, Simone carried dishes inside. She’d keep busy, she thought, try not to think too much, just clear the picnic table, load the dishwasher, and wait.

Because what was coming wasn’t good news.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen before she heard him coming back.

She got out a cold beer, offered it to him when he came in.

“I sent them on. Essie knows there’s trouble, and I know you’ll want to talk to her about it. But I need you to tell me. It’s not island trouble, not from the way you looked at Essie.”

“No, not island trouble.” He took a chug from the beer. “I didn’t want Dylan to hear my end of the conversation.”

“I know. Now he’s playing on the beach. Was it Agent Jacoby?”

“Yeah.” He could work his way up to it. “They found the car Hobart was driving when they spotted her in Louisville. She’d changed the plates, busted it up some. The idiot who found it decided to claim it as his own, did some half-assed bodywork. They found it when the Staties stopped him for speeding—and driving while stoned as it turned out. And hauling a batch of opioids. He did some basic bullshitting. Not my car, man. I just borrowed it.”

“I don’t know where those drugs came from,” Simone finished.

“Yeah, except he had some of said drugs in his pocket. Anyway, before they had all that nailed down, they found Hobart’s prints and the rental agreement with the alias she’d used in the mall down there in the glove box. It came out he’d found the car, busted up and abandoned. Which led to them finding another guy who’d sold her a junk Ford for cash and no worries about paperwork.”

“Now they have a description of that car.”

“She won’t still have it. They’re trying to run that down.”

“That’s not all.”

“No.” He brushed her arm as he wandered to the glass doors. “No, that’s not all. I told you they tracked the card she sent me to where she mailed it.”

“And they were able to track her to where she’d stayed in Coral Gables. That helped track her to Atlanta and the flight to Portland.”

“A little late for McMullen, but yeah. Got the name she used to book the cabin.”

“When they had that sighting in Louisville, verified the name she used to charge those purchases at the mall, the car and tag. You said that was good, good work. You said she’s making mistakes.”

“Yeah.” He turned back. “That didn’t stop her from killing Tracey Lieberman.”

Simone braced a hand on the counter, then sat. “Where, how?”

“Near Elkins, West Virginia. Lieberman worked as a guide. National forest right there. She was in the theater with her mother, her aunt, her cousin. She was fourteen then. She got married last year. Back then she was Tracey Mulder.”

“God. I knew her—a little. She was a year behind us, but she and Mi were in gymnastics together. I knew her.”

He came over to sit beside her. “Her mother was killed that night. She shielded Tracey with her own body. And still Tracey took hits in both legs. Her aunt and her cousin, minor injuries, but Tracey’s were severe. They weren’t sure she’d walk again without assistance, or without a profound limp. She’d never be competitive in gymnastics again. She got a lot of press.”

“And Hobart targets that.”

“Yeah. She got more, even as the story faded off some, because she didn’t give up. She had all the surgeries, and didn’t give up. She did years of PT, and caught the attention of a couple of medalists from the U.S. gymnastics team. They gave her a gold medal for courage. More press.

“She not only walked again, on her own, but at twenty completed her first 5K marathon, and came in fifth. More press. A couple years later, a 25K, third place, and she dedicated the race to her mom.”

“More press.”

“She did some motivational speaking, went to work for the Park Service, moved to Elkins for the job. Got married. McMullen, among others, did a splash on her. Pictures of her after a marathon, looking healthy, more of her in her wedding dress, with the gold medal in her bouquet.”

“She’s everything that Hobart detests. She made strength and heart and endurance out of tragedy and pain.”

“And got the gold—a kind of symbol of wealth and fame.”

“Social media?” Simone asked.

“She was active on a couple of sites for runners. She had two of her own, a public page, about the national forest, the trails, photos, anecdotes. And a private one with her personal stuff.”

“But it’s never really private, is it?”

Reed turned the bottle, shook his head. “All it takes is basic hacking or finding a way to have the page owner let you in. Either way, Hobart knew enough to track her on her early morning runs. She ran every day, not always the same route, but she ran every morning. Hobart’s known to be a runner.”

“She could run one of the routes a couple of times, let Tracey see her, get used to seeing her. Even strike up a conversation.”

“Easy enough,” he agreed. “She was killed this morning between six-thirty and eight-thirty. A bullet in each leg, one in the head.”

“The legs.” It burned in Simone’s heart. “Hobart wanted to destroy her before she killed her.”

“Take out her legs again,” Reed agreed. “Bring back that pain and terror. The feds will track back to where she lived in that area, how long, what she drove.”

“But she’ll be gone, and driving something else.”

“That’s her pattern, but every piece of information counts. It adds up. It should add up,” he muttered.

“Was Tracey on your, I guess I’d call it a watch list?”

“I had her, but … She didn’t really benefit financially, she didn’t get media hero status out of the incident itself. She didn’t affect the outcome. I had her, but we weren’t focused there.”

He shoved up to pace. “Damn it, she drove out of Florida after Devlon, flew out of Atlanta, back to Portland to snatch McMullen, held her in a cabin in the White Mountains, miles east of here, for hours.”

The admirable calm’s slipping, she noted. So she’d be calm for him. “She’d never abducted and held anyone before.”

“She wanted more than a straight kill with McMullen. She wanted attention. The tripod, the lights, makeup traces, and a reporter? She did a video, had to.”

“God, she taped killing McMullen?”

“That might’ve been bonus footage. She wanted the interview, it’s what makes sense. She booked the cabin, had supplies for a full week, but killed McMullen within twenty-four of the snatch. She couldn’t hold on to it, couldn’t maintain for longer.”

To keep her hands busy, Simone dealt with more dishes. “What does that tell you?”

“She’s breaking down. She’s sure as hell breaking down. It tells me she needed to talk, to tell somebody—on the record—how goddamn smart she is, tell them what she’s done and why.”

Simone turned back to him. “She’s isolated, has been all of her life really. A lot by choice, but isolated and playing roles.”

“That’s exactly right.”