She padded to the front door. “Coming,” she yelled at the wood. “You’re early. Good. Maybe you’ll—”she opened the door and shut her mouth.

  “Hi, Fiona. Long time.”

  Although she liked, even admired, the slender, black woman standing on her porch, dread crept over Fiona at the sight of her. “Detective Sylla.” She stumbled over the name.

  They stood eyeing each other for a long moment before Fiona realized she was being rude. “Come in.” She moved aside, and Sylla stepped into the house.

  She hadn’t seen the detective in four years, not since she’d come to tell her they’d caught the person who’d murdered a real estate agent in the Laguna Beach home Fiona inherited after her father’s death. “Can I get you a glass of wine?” She nodded at her own glass.

  “No, thanks. I’m on my way to dinner with a friend.” Sylla’s British accent gave her an air of mystery. Fiona had always wondered what a Brit was doing working for the Orange County Sheriff’s department but had never asked. They didn’t have a personal relationship.

  Fiona noticed the detective’s clothing for the first time. She wore jeans, a slouchy sweater, boots, big hoop earrings and... was that eyeshadow? She’d never seen the woman out of her work clothes. She was actually attractive.

  They walked into the living room, and Sylla settled on the couch while Fiona perched on the edge of an easy chair. “It’s nice to see you,” she said. “But I’m sure you’re not here to be sociable.”

  “I wish I were.”

  Having a cop come to the door was always nerve-wracking. Fiona ticked through the possibilities for the visit in her mind. Sylla wasn’t here about Devon and Caleb. She was an investigator, not CHP, and Dev had texted Fiona to say they’d made it up the mountain. Fiona hadn’t broken any laws lately, so that left only one thing—her half-brother. Her mouth felt dry. She took a sip of wine and waited.

  “Your brother escaped from San Bernardino County Jail last night. I wanted you to hear it from me before you saw it on the news.”

  There it was. Fiona had dreamed about this moment. It had been her recurring nightmare for a full year after he’d been caught. She set her glass down hard. “He wasn’t in San Bernardino. He was in San Quentin.” She said this as if it would disprove the investigator’s statement.

  “The state mandated San Quentin decrease its population by fifty percent due to the virus outbreak. According to AB 109, nonviolent prisoners can be relocated from state pens to county jails. So they released some, moved some.”

  “Since when is murder nonviolent?” The calmness of Fiona’s tone belied the emotion swirling inside her.

  Sylla inhaled and exhaled slowly. “It’s not, but they had to jump through a lot of hoops to meet the state’s demands. I guess your brother⁠—”

  “Half-brother,” Fiona interrupted her.

  “Half-brother wasn’t violent while he was there. He was also at higher risk for the disease, being a bit older and⁠—”

  Fiona held up a hand, cutting her off again. “Okay, okay. So they moved him. How the hell did he escape? Aren’t the county jails secure?” Anger had broken through her stoicism. Her voice trembled.

  “Yes, generally speaking, but they don’t have the security levels of a state prison. Anyway, we think your,” she paused, “half-brother and his cellmate saw the cell phone video of an earlier escape from Santa Ana and mimicked it.”

  Fiona couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Wait, there is a video of a prison break on the internet?”

  Sylla stared at her hands for a second before replying in a monotone. “Right. Apparently, the San Bernardino escape was staged almost identically to the Santa Ana escape seven years ago.”

  “How? How did they do it?”

  “They climbed through a ventilation shaft to the roof, tied bed sheets together, and lowered themselves down. They managed to end up in the open parking area, so no fence. Easy to run from there.”

  Fiona couldn’t speak. There were so many questions running through her head, she didn’t know which to ask first. “What are you doing to find them?” She settled on the most important.

  “Everything we can. He’ll be caught, Fiona. Trust me.”

  Fiona stood, unable to sit still any longer. She walked to the cold fireplace and wrapped her arms around herself. “He’ll come here.”

  “Maybe.” Sylla inclined her head. “But if he’s smart, he’ll head for the border.”

  “He’s not stupid, just insane.”

  Neither woman spoke for a long moment, then Sylla said, “Is your husband at home?”

  Fiona gave a quick shake of her head. “He and my son are in Big Bear.”

  “Perhaps you should call him?”

  “No.” The word erupted from some place deep within. Fiona tempered her voice. “No. I think it’s good they’re away. I don’t want Caleb here if—” She broke off not wanting to even think about that possibility.

  “You could join them.”

  “I’m the only one at the studio until we close for the holidays on Tuesday. We’ve just reopened. I can’t shut down again. Not if I want to stay in business.”

  “I’ve ordered security checks on your house, for your sake but also because it’s a possibility he may head here.” Sylla stood and gazed at Fiona. “It’s a long way from San Bernardino to Dana Point. We’re sure to catch him.”

  You couldn’t hold him when you had him. Fiona kept that thought to herself. None of this was Sylla’s fault, and it didn’t pay to shoot the messenger if you were relying on the messenger to protect you.

  Forty-five minutes after the detective left, Olivia and Crackers arrived. Fiona’s gaze roamed the street as she let them in. No police, not unless they were in an unmarked car.

  Olivia was talking, “. . . two cups of dry food. I brought one can as well, but just give him a little scoop or he won’t eat the dry.” Her friend walked to the kitchen. Fiona watched Crackers disappear into the rear of the house, then followed Olivia. The dog was most likely looking for Caleb. He and her son were crazy about each other.

  Liv was unpacking a bag onto the counter when Fiona joined her. “I brought his favorite water bowl. He won’t drink out of metal ones, and I didn’t want you getting slobber all over your dishes.”

  “Want a glass of wine?” Fiona said, hoping she wouldn’t rush off.

  Olivia eyed the bottle sitting next to the plastic tub of kibble. “I’m supposed to go straight home.”

  “Half a glass?”

  She groaned. “Okay. What do you want to bet Davy won’t be ready when I get back anyway? We have too much stuff to fit into the car even with the roof racks, but he’s determined.”

  Fiona took a stemless wine glass from the cupboard, splashed some wine into it and slid it onto the counter in front of her friend. “Come sit where it’s comfortable.”

  Olivia sank onto the couch where Sylla had been sitting less than an hour ago. Fiona took the place she’d taken earlier. She swirled the wine in her glass but didn’t speak. Bad news, like bad food, churned inside, wanting out. It didn’t seem fair to her friend to spew it at her, however, especially not when she was getting ready for vacation.

  She searched for a topic of discussion, sure her silence seemed suspicious. Before she found one, something wet slapped into her lap. She started.

  “Crackers, that’s not yours.” Olivia leaned forward and took a stuffed squirrel away from her pet. “Sorry.” She made a vain attempt to wipe it dry with her free hand.

  “It’s okay. I’ll wash it,” Fiona said and stroked the dog’s shiny ears. “He’s just looking for Caleb.”

  “You might want to close Caleb’s door. All those toys are tempting. Crackers isn’t great at sharing.” Olivia launched into a story about how he stole another dog’s ball at the dog park and led the entire pack on a merry chase. It saved Fiona from having to talk at all.

  Ten minutes later, she stood at the door holding the collar of a very confused Black Lab mix while his mistress drove away. After another perusal of the street, she closed and latched the front door, returned to the living room, and slid to the floor with her back against the couch.

  Crackers nosed her face, gave her a gentle lick, then curled up beside her. “It’s you and me, buddy,” she said. He thumped his tail in response, and Fiona didn’t feel quite so alone.

  The California King seemed huge without Devon in it, a desert plain, an open sea. Before Detective Sylla had come by, Fiona had imagined cuddling under the comforter and watching a romantic comedy—something her husband wouldn’t participate in on general principal—until she fell asleep.

  The night wasn’t going as planned. She’d put a movie on but couldn’t concentrate. Sylla’s news spun through her mind like a twister, removing all else from its path. It was only a forty-minute drive from San Bernardino to her home at this time of the night. Not far. No matter what Sylla said. He could be here now. In the street in front of her house. She’d searched for the promised police presence and hadn’t seen it.

  Fiona hadn’t been able to decide whether to leave the lights on or turn them off when she got in bed. If she left them on, her house felt like a fishbowl—naked to prying eyes. If she turned them off, she couldn’t see if there was someone inside, hiding in a dark corner. Lose-lose situation. She compromised by leaving only the kitchen and hallway lights on.

  She flopped over on her side and looked at Crackers, who snored softly on the floor by the bed. He was her comfort, her early-warning system. She reached into her bedside table drawer and pulled out her other comfort—a Sig Sauer. She ejected and reinserted the magazine. It was loaded, as it had been the last ten times she’d checked it.

  She’d bought the handgun when the corpse was discovered in an upstairs bedroom of the Laguna Beach house. She’d also taken shooting lessons at a nearby range, and while she was no Navy Seal, she was reasonably proficient. She’d kept it in her bedside table until she’d had Caleb. As soon as he could crawl, it had been locked away in a gun cupboard.

  Devon hadn’t protested, as she’d expected. He didn’t like it—she could see that by the tightness of his mouth whenever the gun was visible. Although he never talked about it, she guessed he’d seen firearm tragedies in his line of work, but Fiona was careful.

  She set the gun in the nightstand again but left the drawer open so it would be handy. Her phone rang as she rolled onto her back. She glanced at the screen. It was Devon. “Hey, honey. How are you guys?”

  “Great, we’re great.” It was so wonderful to hear her husband’s voice. She choked up for a moment. “Fi? You there?”

  “Yes, here,” she said. “So, from your picture, it looked like Caleb loved the snow.”

  Devon paused. “He does. Had to drag him inside when the sun started going down.”

  His tone was a bit too enthusiastic. Fiona wondered if father and son had a disagreement. Every once and a while, Caleb relapsed from the curious threes into the terrible twos again, especially when he was excited. “Temper tantrum?” she asked.

  Again Devon hesitated. “No,” he said. “He was fine. Bribed him with a bowl of rocky road.”

  She could tell from his voice she wasn’t getting the whole story but decided to let it go. When they’d fought, Devon had also accused her of micromanaging his parenting.

  “How was your day?” Devon said.

  “Fine.” It was her turn to lie. “I’m dog-sitting for Olivia and Davy.”

  “Caleb will be green with envy when he finds out. He loves that dog.”

  She glanced at her sleeping companion. He was pawing the air now, chasing a dream rabbit. “He’s a good one. We should consider a lab-shepherd mix.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I know, but I was thinking, we could get a puppy for a family Christmas present.”

  “It’s a big decision.” He sounded hesitant.

  My half-brother has escaped from jail, and we need all the security we can get, she thought but didn’t say. “I really like having a dog around.”

  “Not all dogs are as well trained as Crackers. They’ve spent a lot of time and money on him. Unless you’re willing to invest in classes and trainers... ”

  Devon’s familiar diatribe floated into the air around her. She’d heard it before and stopped listening.

  She would have to tell him about the prison break before he heard it on the news, but as soon as he knew, he’d come running home. Home wasn’t safe for Caleb. If she could keep them up there until⁠—

  “Fi? Are you listening to me?”

  “Um, yeah. You were saying dogs are a lot of work.”

  “No. I mean I did say that, but I’d moved on. I was telling you about the sled run I’m taking Caleb to tomorrow.”

  “Sorry, I got distracted. Tell me again.”

  He did, and she listened this time, asked all the right questions, and laughed at his dad-jokes. They made plans to touch base the next day when Caleb was awake so she could talk to him, said goodnight, then hung up. She didn’t tell Devon about the jail break.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  MOLLY: Both Fiona and Devon are keeping secrets—ostensibly, to protect the other. But is it wise? Devon is worried about threats his client’s husband made. Fiona now knows that her half-brother, REK, a very dangerous man, has escaped from prison. Seems to me, they shouldn’t be withholding information at this point but hang on to that thought.

  Before I get to the question of the week, we have another installment from our escaped con and one more from Devon.

  7.1.5

  DIARY

  I couldn’t sleep with all the noise in the back seat. Chuck sounded like he was hacking up a lung. It was disgusting.

  I pulled myself out of the car, walked to a nearby tree, took a pee, and shivered. The night air was clean and free, but it was cold, too. I leaned against the Honda and stared up at the sky. Next stop, I was getting cigarettes.

  The stars danced and popped like tiny firecrackers. Lots of guys probably forgot about them when they were inside. Forgot to even miss them. Shoot, I was sure there were things had I forgotten about. Things I wouldn’t remember until I saw them again.

  We talked about the stuff we missed all the time, but it was big stuff—food, sex. The alkies talked about booze. The druggies about their drug of choice. Some couldn’t talk about anything but home. Other dudes got tight-lipped when home got brought up. But I didn’t remember anybody talking about stars, or the smell of pine trees, or the scream of an owl. I didn’t remember that at all.

  Chuck’s coughing broke my reverie. I swear, the whole car shook. This wasn’t going to work. We couldn’t go anywhere with him like this. He’d get too much attention. He had the virus. Which meant I was going to get the virus if I didn’t have it already.

  I opened the back door and stared at him. He was curled up like a baby, eyes tight shut, face glinting with sweat in the moonlight. He didn’t look good, not good at all.

  I closed the door, went back to my place by the front fender, and pondered my position. I could take him to a hospital, toss him out, and run, but then the cops would know where I was and what I was driving.

  No good.

  I could dump him under this tree, but he’d most likely die before he was found. Seemed an unkind thing to do. I mean, Chuck was his own kind of bad. I knew he’d done things but wasn’t sure he deserved a long, slow death.

  No, there was only one way. I didn’t like it though. There was something dark living inside Chuck. I wasn’t convinced it would die with him.

  A big star, the North Star, or maybe it was a planet—the only constellation I knew for sure was Orion. Anyway, it winked at me as if to say, “You got it, bro. You can do this.” I winked back and opened the trunk.

  The gym bag was still there. I grabbed a large towel, folded it into quarters and carried it to where Chuck lay sleeping in the car.

  I didn’t look at him this time. Didn’t want to see his eyes. Didn’t want to see the look he’d give me. He’d know what I was up to because it was exactly what he’d do if our positions were switched.

  I slapped the towel over his face and threw my weight into it. He didn’t struggle much. I think he was too weak from the sickness. I looked up at the stars until he stopped kicking and tried not to think about cats stealing the breath out of babies.

  When he was still, I pulled him out of the car and dragged him under the tree. I was careful not to lay him where I’d taken a leak. I might not be able to bury him, but that didn’t mean I was going to disrespect him.

  I folded his hands over his chest like I’d seen them do with dead folks in movies and looked up at the stars again. I felt like I ought to say a few words, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything.

  I cleared my throat. “Chuck wasn’t a bad man.” I shook my head. It didn’t do to lie. Orion would know the truth. The stars saw it all. “Okay,” I said. “He was a bad man, but I’ve known worse, much worse.”

  I bowed my head for a quiet moment, got in the car, and backed out of the clearing.

  The sun was peeking out over the rim of the world when I got to Twin Peaks. I was almost out of gas. Leave it to a computer geek to drive around with a mostly empty tank.

  Now I had a dilemma. Did I get gas with the last of the money Chuck had found in the jeans, or did I take another car? Grabbing a car seemed best, especially because the black-haired chick I’d taken the computer from may have seen what we were driving. There were risks involved with that, however. First, I had to find the right car; then, I’d have to dump the Honda somewhere. I decided to fill the gas can I’d found in the back while I made up my mind.

  An idea dropped into my head while I was pumping petrol. Arrowhead. A bunch of rich people had extra homes in Arrowhead. People who can afford extra homes can afford extra cars. They might leave vehicles up here for snow driving or for guests. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said under my breath, paid for the gas, and headed for Arrowhead.