Alaina’s thin to the point of being wiry, with light red hair and prominent cheekbones. Her eyes are a deep blue. I’m not sure if she has a job. She speaks vaguely of working but never seems to. Everything Alaina says is a little vague, as if she’s intentionally creating an air of mystery about her. Or as if she has things to hide. Dallas thought she had a well-off family. But her mother died last year. Maybe Alaina’s spigot got cut off.

  Alaina seems simultaneously young and vulnerable but also worldly and indifferent. One of the big reasons I want to head home is that I don’t want Mackenzie to go any longer without her father around. Alaina seems unmoored, without anything or anyone keeping her tethered to the ground. I don’t want the same thing happening to my daughter.

  “Well? What are you doing?”

  I reach behind me, pull Dallas’ apartment door shut. “Nothing. Trying to make a call.”

  “Is Dallas home?”

  “Didn’t you say you were evacuating?” I ask her. “You said you were going to a friend’s house inland. The storm’s getting worse by the minute.”

  Alaina moves closer to the building, trying to avoid the rain. She wears a hoodie and jeans and rubs the sweatshirt material on her upper arms. “Fell through.” She lifts her chin in my direction. “I thought you were going back to Ohio.”

  “I was. I mean, I am.”

  “It sounds nice to me. Ohio. I’ve never been there.” Huddled against the wall, sleeves pulled down over her hands, Alaina looks more childlike and defenseless than usual. “I’m picturing cornfields and red barns. Lots of trees. That seems like what Ohio’s all about. Kind of like a dream.”

  I try to place the call again, but there’s still no signal. “Yeah…”

  She cocks her head. “What’s the matter, Jake? You’re acting all weird.”

  I glance at Dallas’ closed door, the rain spitting against the side of my face. I turn back to Alaina. “I have some news. But I’m not sure if we should tell anyone else.”

  “Is something wrong with Dallas?”

  “Why do you ask that? Did you hear something?”

  “Hear something?” She hesitates a moment. The wind blows her hair out from under her hood and across her face. She brushes it back. “No, I didn’t hear anything, but I saw you standing out here, trying to use your phone in the pouring rain. Then you shut the door when I walked up. Like you didn’t want me to go inside. Dallas likes to keep his door open, even when it’s raining. He likes to be available to people. To everyone. I mean, that’s his thing, right?”

  I move closer to her, catch a whiff of cigarettes. Maybe that’s what she’s spending her rent money on. “Look, I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you this, but something happened to Dallas.” I glance at the parking lot, hoping for a distraction, but it’s hard to make out anything in the storm. I turn back to her. “Dallas is gone, Alaina. He’s dead.”

  Alaina whips her head toward the door of Dallas’ apartment. “What the fuck? Did he have a heart attack or something?”

  It takes me a moment to say it out loud. I don’t want to say it out loud. “I think someone killed him. There’s blood…on the back of his head.”

  Alaina’s mouth forms a small O. A second later she raises her hand and covers the O. “Are you fucking with me, Jake?”

  “I wish I were.” I shake my head and point to the door. “His bedroom was ransacked, like it was a robbery. Maybe someone was looting. Maybe they thought we were all gone, and then they came across Dallas. His apartment is the first one you see. It’s right here by the stairs.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t random like that. Maybe they were looking for something. You know, something Dallas had. Or thought he had.”

  “What on earth could Dallas have that someone would kill for?”

  Alaina averts her eyes. “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Maybe it was those squatters. Those people were assholes.”

  “I thought of that too.”

  She uses her sleeve to wipe her nose. “Or maybe it was someone he knows. You talk to Dallas all the time, and he’s super secretive about his past, isn’t he? I mean, look at him. He looks like the kind of guy who had a rough time in life. What about his ex-wife, his daughter? He never talks about them. If they come up, he acts all weird and evasive.”

  “You think his family came down here and murdered him in the middle of a hurricane?”

  “I don’t know.” She sniffs, wipes her nose again.

  I can’t tell if she’s crying or if it’s rainwater hitting her face. Or both. But she’s not looking me in the eye.

  “I need to get out of here. This building’s going to be torn down, and even if it wasn’t, I can’t afford to stay here.” Since she’s not looking at me, it feels like she’s talking to herself, giving herself a lecture. “I want to do so many things, but I’m just—I don’t know…stuck. No one I know is really going anywhere. I’m always depressed and”—she looks me in the eye for a split second—“lonely.”

  Alaina’s looking away again, and as we stand here on the landing, the rain hitting the sides of our bodies, she seems to shrink, to become even smaller than she already is. “You’re young, Alaina. Very young. That’s to your advantage. When the storm’s over and all of this gets cleared up, you can do whatever you want. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  “I guess.” Big sniff.

  “I think you should go back inside. The weather’s getting worse and…whoever did this to Dallas is probably still around. Did you see or hear anything unusual? Anything at all?”

  “Over this storm? Are you kidding? Not a chance. I was in my apartment with the door shut all day.”

  “What about yesterday? Or any other time? Have you seen anything unusual lately?”

  She steals another look at me. “It seems like every few days there are dudes out there in hard hats and construction vests, and they go all over the island looking at stuff and measuring it. I’m sure they’re trying to figure out how they’re going to build the fancy condos they’re putting in. They could at least wait until we’re gone.”

  “Progress waits for no one.”

  “It’s bullshit.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “What are you going to do now, Jake? About Dallas?”

  “I’m going to go get help. There’s no phone service—”

  “There never is.”

  “I’m going to tell the cops. They can come over here and figure out what happened to Dallas. And then I’m heading for Ohio.”

  She finally looks at me for more than a second, forcing a smile. “Give my regards to the cornfields and the cows.”

  “There’s more to Ohio than that. There are cities and factories and highways.”

  “Don’t tell me that. Let me have my fantasy, okay?”

  “Okay, fine. You can picture me in overalls and a straw hat.”

  She doesn’t laugh. “What should I do? Do you want me to get help?” Her offer sounds uncertain, like it’s the last thing she wants to do. “I don’t have a car. Should I just hide in my apartment?”

  “Yes, stay here. Ride out the storm.”

  I want to do something for Alaina. It seems wrong to just turn around and leave when she’s clearly hurting. I get it. I really do. Being lost and confused and stuck doesn’t always end when you’re young. I understand what she’s going through.

  I dig in my pocket, bring out the Elantra’s keys. “Here.” I hold them out to her. “I’m not using my car anymore. It’s not in great shape, but it can get you around town. You know, if you decide to…”

  “If I decide to what?” she asks, although she knows what I was going to say. She’s too smart not to.

  “Just take the car, Alaina.”

  “If I decide to what, Jake?”

  “I just mean it’s nice to have a way to get around, even a lousy one.”

  “You meant, if I want to get a job. Or go to school. Or any of that stuff. That’s what you meant.”

  “Whatever, Alaina. It’s up to you.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “How are you getting to Ohio if you’re giving me your car?”

  “Dallas gave me his car, the Highlander. He’s moving to Chicago and doesn’t need it. Or he was moving there. Before…”

  “He gave you his car? Just gave it to you?”

  “He did. You know as well as I do, that’s what Dallas is like.”

  Is? Was. Was like.

  “So you’re driving off in his car, which is way better than your car. And he’s dead. So, like, no one can be sure whether he gave it to you or not.”

  “When did you last talk to Dallas?”

  Alaina’s brow wrinkles. Her blue eyes turn to ice. “Fuck you, Jake. I knew you’d end up saying something like that. You and Dallas sitting around having your bromance while he complains about me not paying my rent. You’re just like him. You both seem to think you know better than everyone else. Dallas acted like he was my dad or something.”

  “Alaina, I just want to—”

  “And yet you two are down here all alone. The lonely hearts club. Where’s your family, Jake? Where’s Dallas’ daughter?”

  “Alaina, I’m trying to help you. So was Dallas. That’s why he didn’t evict you.”

  “Big favor. Letting me stay in this shithole. Fuck you both.”

  She whips around, her hair flying out in a ring around her head. She storms off down the walkway toward her apartment.

  “Alaina, wait—”

  She hesitates, freezing in place. Then she turns around.

  I toss the keys toward her in a perfect arc, and to my surprise she catches them.

  “Good luck,” I say. “And be safe.”

  Nine

  The key.

  The key to the Highlander is inside Dallas’ apartment.

  “Shit.”

  I don’t want to go back in there. I don’t want to face—

  But I have no choice.

  Inside the apartment, the air feels even heavier than before. But that must be my mind playing tricks on me, knowing what happened here. My clothes are soaked. Death permeates the air like a virus.

  Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe he’s still alive. Maybe I was wrong.

  I’m not a doctor or paramedic. What do I know?

  But when I walk up to the couch, it’s obvious he hasn’t moved. Not a millimeter.

  He’s dead.

  There’s no sign of the key fob. Most likely, he stuffed it into his pocket when I handed it back. His front pocket. And Dallas’ body is face down on the floor. It feels like some kind of violation. To move him. To dig around in his pocket for the keys.

  What would Dallas want me to do? He’d want me to get help. He’d want me to do whatever I could to protect everyone else.

  “Okay, buddy,” I say out loud, trying to act normal. “I’m going to just, you know, roll you over a little. Nice and easy.”

  I get my hands under his body and lift as slowly as I can. Hot beads of sweat pop out on my forehead as I roll him gently onto his side, his right arm pressed underneath him. It looks painful, but…

  All of a sudden he’s facing me, looking me right in the eye. The corners of his mouth turned down in anguish.

  A trickle of blood runs out of his left nostril. Whatever happened to him must have hurt. Bad. Anger surges inside me, threatening to rise through my throat and out of my mouth. Someone hurt my friend.

  “I’ll find out who did this, Dallas.”

  I hold his body up with my right hand and use the left to search. My fingers dig in one pocket—no keys. It’s harder to reach into the other pocket, the one closest to the floor. The sweat runs into my eyes, burning my corneas. I lift my hand to wipe it away. When I put my hand back in his pocket, my fingertips brush metal. I get a firm grip on the key and pull it out before easing Dallas back to the floor.

  The gash on the back of his head mocks me like an angry red smile. It’s vicious. Nausea washes through me, replacing the anger. The rusty odor of blood reaches my nose.

  “Okay, buddy, I’ve got to go.” I pat him on the back a couple of times as if that makes leaving him there any less gruesome. I stand, my knees creaking, and grab my two bags.

  All I have to do now is get to the car without the killer finding me. Then try to make it across the waterlogged causeway and get help before it’s too late. Before the hurricane makes landfall.

  No problem.

  No problem at all.

  Ten

  The rain blows in giant liquid curtains off the roof of the building. It gushes through the downspouts. A foot-long lizard scurries past my shoes, seeking shelter.

  Rain and wind are the only sounds I can hear. If someone walked right behind me, I wouldn’t hear them.

  The stairs to the parking garage go down a half flight and then double back on themselves. If the killer—or anybody else—is waiting around the corner, I won’t see them.

  But there’s no other way down. I’m not getting into the elevator. And the longer I wait, the worse the storm gets.

  The farther away Ohio grows.

  I grip my bags tighter, potential weapons I can swing at an assailant.

  I start down the stairs, taking great care not to slip. Eight steps later, I’m on the landing halfway down. My left shoulder brushes the soaking stucco wall. Rain pounds down on me.

  I get wetter and wetter.

  Anyone could be right ahead of me.

  Lurking.

  I propel my body around the corner, so I’m directly facing anyone who might be there.

  But there’s no one.

  My body huffs, my breath coming in great bursts. My lungs hurt. Water runs into my eyes and down the back of my shirt. The parking garage—covered with two inches of standing water—waits ahead of me, illuminated by the overhead lights.

  I splash onto the garage floor, my shoes sinking into the water, my feet and socks now completely soaked. Dallas parked the Highlander five spots down from where I usually park. I run across the garage as fast as I can, my pants getting wet nearly to my knees. But at least the rain isn’t hitting me anymore.

  I hold the bags with one hand while hitting the key fob with the other. I jump in, toss the bags onto the passenger seat, and slam the door shut behind me, immediately locking the doors.

  I’m inside. I’m safe.

  The storm and the killer are outside.

  I’ve been in Dallas’ car plenty of times. It smells like citrus-scented air freshener like it always does. The windows fog. I start the car, blasting the defrost. I adjust the seat a little, wipe water off my face. Then drop the car into reverse. When I back up, the tires plow through standing water.

  Just beyond the exit, the water still falls in sheets. When I get there, the headlights catch a figure rushing through the darkness, away from the building. It’s a quick blur, a man in a dark jacket moving through the rain-soaked night in the direction of the other two buildings.

  I hit the brakes.

  The figure disappears into the darkness. I could follow, but I’d either have to get out of the car and go through the rain and slick grass on foot or to go off road in the car.

  If he is the killer, he’s fleeing the scene of the crime.

  Getting away.

  There’s nowhere to go on Ketchum Island. The other two buildings are closed, boarded up tight without any power or water. A few outbuildings are scattered around the island. But there’s no obvious place to hide. Where are they going?

  My heart thumps in time with the wipers. I need to get out of here while I can.

  The police can come and search for this person. Not me. I don’t have time.

  I hit the gas, and the Highlander lurches forward. The headlights cut through the slashing rain and the deepening gloom.

  I’m on my way.

  Finally.

  Eleven

  6:13 p.m.

  The wind blows across the causeway harder than when I was driving home.

  The sky has turned completely black.

  The car shimmies, and I fight the wheel. The radio gives me the bad news: It’s official. The National Hurricane Center has upgraded Kylie to a dangerous Category Three storm. That means sustained winds of close to one hundred and thirty miles an hour, causing devastating damage….

  Rain drowns the windshield. The wipers are worthless. My foot eases off the gas as I remind myself not to go too fast. Even though a pressure building inside me urges me on.

  Before the causeway washes away.

  Before the roads out of Florida are closed.

  Before the person I saw running through the dark gets away.

  Before someone else gets hurt.

  Waves hammer both sides of the road at the same time. The water slams against the barriers and spumes into the air like geysers.

  A giant chunk is gone from the road ahead of me, like an enormous sea creature took a bite out of the causeway. The headlights catch it. I can’t stop in time—

  I’m going in—I’m going in—

  A yelping noise of pure terror erupts from my mouth.

  Somehow, I swerve in time, taking the Highlander into the oncoming lane to go around the gash, the vehicle lurching from one side to the other.

  I slow again, moving back to my own lane. My hands are so wet with sweat I can barely grip the wheel.

  I’m halfway across the causeway.

  “Five hundred more feet. You can do this.”

  A light ahead of me comes into focus. It’s too close to me to be on the mainland.

  The light is moving toward me. I can barely make it out through the wipers and the sheets of falling water, but eventually it resolves into two lights.