“Probably just some farmer who happened to drive by,” Quinn said.
“What I’d really like to know is how the hell Fletcher found out that Lucy Sheridan was at the party tonight,” Brinker said.
“Does it matter?” Quinn asked.
“Yeah,” Brinker said. “It matters. I don’t like the idea of that bastard interfering in my business.”
“Let it go,” Quinn said. “You don’t want to mess with Mason Fletcher.”
“Why not? He’s just a guy who works in a hardware store.”
“Look, the party’s over. Let’s go home and forget about Fletcher.”
Mason put on his sunglasses and moved out of the shadows. He lounged against the front fender of the sleek sports car.
“First we talk about Lucy,” he said.
Quinn slammed to a halt. “Fletcher? What are you doing here?”
Brinker stopped short, pinning Mason with the flashlight. The sunglasses did the job they were designed to do. They controlled the glare.
“Get away from my car,” Brinker snarled. “That paint job is custom. You’re going to scratch it.”
Mason ignored him. “Target Lucy Sheridan again and you won’t be going back to college for the fall semester.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brinker said. “Now, get away from my car.”
Quinn was clearly nervous. “Are you threatening us?”
“Something like that,” Mason said.
“Who talked?” Brinker said. His voice was hoarse with anger.
“That’s not important,” Mason said. “All you need to know is that I know what you were planning.”
Quinn was starting to look bewildered. “What’s going on here?”
“Who talked?” Brinker shouted. He made a visible effort to get himself under control. “Never mind. I’ll find out, and when I do—”
“Yeah?” Mason said. “What, exactly, do you think you’ll do?”
“Get out of my way,” Brinker said, his voice tight with fury. “You’re going to be sorry you ever showed up tonight. Got that?”
“I hear you,” Mason said quietly. “Now it’s your turn to listen to me. Do not go near Lucy Sheridan again. If anything happens to her, I will assume you are responsible. Do you understand me, Brinker?”
Brinker suddenly snapped into full-blown rage. He dropped his end of the ice chest, picked up the nearest blunt object—a rock—lowered his head and charged.
“Hey,” Quinn yelped. “Don’t. Tristan, are you crazy?”
Mason did not move until the last instant, and then he moved very quickly, slipping out of the way. Brinker slammed into the car. There was a sharp, metallic screech as the rock scored a jagged strip of custom paint off the vehicle. Jolted, Tristan staggered back a couple of steps.
Mason walked past him, turned and looked back.
“Stay away from Lucy Sheridan,” he said.
He kept walking, giving Brinker and Quinn his back. Unfortunately, neither of them took the bait.
When he reached the truck, he opened the door, got inside, cranked the engine and drove home to the old cabin near the river.
He found Aaron asleep on the sofa. The pricey new computer that Mason and Deke had given him for his birthday was still glowing. The screen showed several lines of arcane computer code.
Mason locked the front door and checked the windows. It was a nightly ritual, one he had followed faithfully since the night a police detective had told him that his parents had been in a car accident.
He tossed a blanket over Aaron and climbed the stairs to his room. He powered up his own computer, the used one that he had picked up on an online auction site.
He went through the other nightly ritual, checking to make sure that the family bank account was not overdrawn and that there were no new bills to be paid. Satisfied that the electricity and the phones were safe for another month, he wrote an email to his uncle, giving a short summary of the night’s events. He told Deke that he thought the situation was under control.
He stripped down to his briefs, put his cell on the night table, turned off the lights and got into bed. With his arms folded behind his head, he contemplated the moonlit night through the window.
He had told Deke that he could handle the situation, but the truth was he had not yet come up with a plan. And it had become clear tonight that he would need one. Tristan Brinker was not just a spoiled, rich jerk. He was a full-blown psycho. Sooner or later he was going to explode. Mason didn’t know much about psychology, but he had no trouble recognizing a human predator when he met one. He also understood in some intuitive manner that it had been important to distract Brinker from his initial target. He was pretty sure he had succeeded, temporarily, at least, but that did not mean that Lucy and the other girls of Summer River were safe.
First thing in the morning he would talk to Lucy’s aunt and explain just how dangerous the situation was. His gut told him that it was important to get Lucy out of town—and out of Brinker’s reach—as soon as possible.
Then he would have to figure out how to get rid of Brinker. He was very sure now that the bastard would not stop.
The following morning, Brinker was spotted leaving town in the shiny new sports car his father had given him. He was never seen again. Within days rumors circulated that he had been the victim of a drug deal gone bad.
Brinker’s body was never recovered.
3
Thirteen years later,
Vantage Harbor, California
Lucy was about to take the first sip of a badly needed glass of white wine when she saw the Grieving Widow bearing down on the booth.
Alicia Gatley sliced effortlessly through the noisy throng of office workers crowding the popular bar at happy hour. She was the kind of woman who turned heads—male and female—when she entered a room. From the snug designer suit and sky-high heels to her manicured nails and sleek chignon, she was a classic Alfred Hitchcock blonde. The expensive boob job didn’t hurt, either, Lucy thought. But tonight the barracuda beneath the glowing façade was on full display.
“Oh, my goodness,” Hannah Carter whispered. “This isn’t going to be good.”
“Just what we needed to finish off an otherwise perfectly lousy day,” Ella Merrick added.
“She’s here for you, Lucy,” Hannah warned. “She blames you for what happened in court.”
“No kidding,” Lucy said.
Ella gave her a sympathetic look. “You were just the messenger.”