But then Drex’s unexpected appearance had thrust Jasper’s strategy into overdrive. He’d sowed seeds of doubt about their neighbor in Talia’s mind, hoping to thwart any interaction between them until he could formulate another plan.

Then—bless her!—Talia’s mention of a getaway had opened up an opportunity.

Even better, he could broadcast it using the transmitter that Drex had planted. Talk about a backfire. It had been too delicious.

He’d acted quickly, but efficiently, and so far everything had gone splendidly.

But now here Drex was, playing fly in the ointment again.

Jasper risked making himself conspicuous by loitering near the pier, but within minutes another man joined Drex. They talked briefly, then, in a decisive manner, Drex turned away from the railing. The two of them strode along the pier and descended the steps in a hurry. They walked past him without giving him a second glance.

Jasper dismissed the other man as a sidekick.

But he was struck by Drex’s unfamiliar demeanor. No jaunty gait, no dimpled smile. This Drex was no aw-shucks wannabe. There was an intensity about him, an angry determination in his bearing. It couldn’t be mistaken. It definitely couldn’t be dismissed.

And with that thought, the freshly cut hair on the back of Jasper’s neck stood on end.

Drex Easton was him.

Jasper had been feeling him for years, an unknown entity who was invisible, but whose presence he felt. A shadow. Untouchable, but there. More often than he wanted to admit, he would sense him like a ghostly waft of cool air. He would awaken and imagine a menacing presence hovering over him while he slept. Sometimes, in a crowd, he would whip around suddenly in the hope—and fear—that he would spot him, that he would be able to pick him out in a sea of unknowns.

He never did, but he knew he existed. He knew he was corporeal and not just an inhabitant of nightmares and premonitions. He was real and on Jasper’s trail with the unflagging purpose of a bloodhound and the fervor of a pilgrim, undeterred by time or distance or failure.

But how did one combat someone unseen? It would be like fencing in absolute blackout. He couldn’t strike out without giving away his position. He couldn’t beat him at his own game because he didn’t know who he was, what he looked like, or his name.

Until now.

Chapter 20

Talia had been home for no longer than fifteen minutes before she was curled up in an oversize upholstered chair and sipping a glass of wine. The compact, first-floor room tucked under the staircase had a desk where she conducted her business, but she’d also furnished it with comfortable pieces, making it as much her retreat as her workplace.

She was enjoying the peacefulness it afforded when the doorbell rang.

Disgruntled by the interruption and mystified as to who would be on her doorstep this late on a Saturday night, she set aside her glass of wine, made her way to the front door, and looked through the peephole.

The two men looking back at her were strangers. With misgiving, she called through the door, “Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Ford?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Dave Locke, this is Ed Menundez. We’re detectives with the Charleston Police Department.” Each held up a badge where she could see it. “Can we please speak with you?”

“The police department?”

“We’d like to speak with you, please.”

She hesitated for a moment then disengaged the alarm, flipped the deadbolt, and opened the door. Dividing a look of perplexity between the two, she asked, “Speak with me about what?”

“May we come in?”

“What’s happened?”

“May we?”

She gave Locke a vague nod of assent and stepped aside. She realized then that she’d left her shoes in front of her easy chair. The marble floor of the entry was cold against her bare feet. She shut the door and turned to the men, repeating, “What’s happened?”

“Are you here alone?” Locke, evidently the spokesman of the duo, was tall and thin, with a pleasant bearing and eyes that drooped at the outer corners.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Ford?”

“He’s in Atlanta.” The first panicked thought that entered her mind was that there had been a plane crash. “His flight…?”

“No, this isn’t about a flight.”

“Then please tell me why you’re here.”

“Are you acquainted with Elaine Conner?”

She swallowed, nodded, and replied, “Very well. She’s a good friend of mine.”

“We gathered that, because your name showed up numerous times in her recent calls log.”

“You have Elaine’s phone?”

“We discovered it on her yacht.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What were you doing on Elaine’s yacht? Is she all right?” But even as she asked, she knew. Her eyes widened with alarm. “Has there been an accident?”

Locke extended his hand, but came short of actually touching her. “Mrs. Ford, the body of a woman was discovered on the beach tonight, washed ashore. We believe it’s Elaine Conner.”

Talia gaped at them with disbelief, then covered her mouth and backed into one of the straight chairs flanking the console table. She bumped against the leg of it, rocking a crystal vase so hard it would have fallen off if Menundez hadn’t reacted quickly enough to stabilize it.

Locke was still talking. Talia had to focus on each word in order to comprehend what he was saying. “…ask if you knew how to contact Mrs. Conner’s next of kin.”

Talia wanted to wake up from this awful dream before it became any worse, but try as she might to force herself awake, the scene remained real, palpable, harsh. Her feet were freezing. Her ears were buzzing. Two heralds of dreadful news were looking down on her, awaiting a response.

“She…” She stopped, drew in two quick breaths, and tried again. “Elaine doesn’t have any living relatives. No next of kin.”

“Then we may need to impose on you.”

“Impose on me?”

“To take a look at a sketch and verify that it’s her.”

Talia stared up at them, but was too benumbed to speak. This could not be happening.

Locke said, “The coroner will make a positive ID, but it would be helpful if you could identify her from a sketch. We should be receiving it shortly.” He motioned to the iPad his partner held at his side.

Shakily, Talia stood up. “I’m going to get my shoes.”

“I’ll get them for you,” Locke said. She got the impression it wasn’t an offer out of kindness.

“I left them in my study. The room behind the stairs. My phone is on the end table. Please bring that, too.”

He left her with Menundez, who was younger, stockier, and more all-business. He wasn’t merely looking at her. He was scrutinizing her. To break the strained silence she asked him if it was still raining.

“Off and on,” he said.

Locke returned with her requested phone. Awkwardly he passed her one shoe at a time. She put them on, then, feeling only slightly steadier, stood.

“Better?” Locke asked.

“I’m fine.”

She knew she should probably ask if they would like to move into the living room and sit while they waited for the expected email, but inviting them to do so would make this visit seem even more official, and she was resistant to doing that.