thoughts swirling with what she had read in the police report Valentine Lopez had given her. It seemed he and his detectives had, indeed, done a thorough job investigating Rachel’s disappearance. They had interviewed nearly two dozen members of the congregation at Paradise Christian. All had expressed shock and dismay over their pastor’s disappearance—but not surprise. Pastor Rachel had been behaving strangely, they’d said. Differently from the woman they had chosen to lead their flock. Her sermons had become bizarre, and she had been acting secretive, nervous and jumpy. One woman reported paying a call on Rachel and finding her crying. Several others had reported Rachel stopping by their home unexpectedly to ask questions about their teenage children.
The police had also spoken with her sister’s housekeeper, the church groundskeeper, secretary and a handful of others Rachel had had contact with in her last days. The report mentioned a teenager in Rachel’s counsel, but not the youngster’s name.
The police had done a complete search of both the parsonage, church and its grounds. That search had yielded nothing out of the ordinary—and certainly not anything to indicate her sister had been a victim of violence. By that point they had begun to conclude Pastor Rachel had disappeared under her own power, but as a matter of course they had issued a statewide BOLO—police vernacular for Be On the Lookout For—then had contacted all the morgues, hospitals and medical centers in south Florida.
Their efforts had yielded nothing.
Soon after they had closed the investigation.
The scream of tires skidding to a halt startled her out of her thoughts. Liz realized with a shock that she had stepped off the sidewalk and into traffic.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, lady! You got a death wish or something!”
Heart thundering, Liz scurried backward. Vivid pink petals from a low-hanging branch of the oleander tree above her fluttered to the ground. The irate driver gunned his engine and pulled past her, shooting her a disgusted look as he did.
Liz brought a hand to her chest, shaken. What was wrong with her? She could have been killed. If that driver had been distracted or traffic had been heavier …
She sucked in a shuddering breath, working for calm. Her therapist had warned her she didn’t have the emotional wherewithal for this. He had warned that signs of her fragile state would manifest itself in a number of ways: emotional highs and lows, forgetfulness, feelings of being overwhelmed or confused. Inability to concentrate.
“Ms. Ames? Are you all right?”
Liz glanced over her shoulder. Lieutenant Lopez stood in the KWPD doorway, expression concerned. Obviously, he had seen her boneheaded waltz into oncoming traffic. Dammit. The last thing she wanted him to know was just how thin an emotional thread she was hanging by.
She forced a smile. “Fine. Thanks for asking.”
“You need to be more careful. Traffic in this town can be pretty unforgiving.”
She stared at him a moment, unsettled. She found something vaguely threatening in his tone, his conciliatory expression. Just as she had earlier, when he had warned her about stepping on Key Westers’ toes.
Sweat beaded across her upper lip. She opened her mouth to speak, the voice that passed her lips was hardly her own, high and frightened sounding. She cringed at it, imagining his amusement. All but hearing his thoughts:
A family of fruit loops. Her and her sister both.
Liz turned and hurried toward Duval Street, concentrating on walking with purpose and confidence, shoulders back, head held high. She felt his gaze on her and fought glancing back.
If she did, he would know. He would see.
She was losing her mind.
Liz put one foot in front of the other, again and again. Sweat pooled under her arms and rolled down her spine. Light-headed, she focused on breathing deeply, on filling her lungs. Oxygen in. Garbage out.
People streamed around her. She sensed their curious glances. Her heart beat faster, out of control. She struggled to breathe, to keep moving blindly forward, to maintain.
Liz knew what was happening to her. A panic attack. Brought on by stress, by extreme anxiety. She had suffered a number of them in recent months, her first the afternoon she’d caught her husband in bed with her so-called best friend, the second a week later when one of her clients, a teenager named Shera, attempted to kill herself by taking a handful of pills.
She couldn’t think about that, those things, not now. A bench. She needed to find a place to sit. Frantic, Liz darted her gaze from left to right, searching.
Finally, she located one. She collapsed onto it and dropped her head to her knees. She breathed deeply and slowly, as her therapist had instructed.
Oxygen in. Garbage out.
Let it go. It was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.
Little by little, her heart slowed, her skin cooled. The attack that had held her in its clammy grip passed. Still she sat, face cradled in her hands. Dear Lord, how could she help others, when she was falling apart herself? How could she find her sister’s killer, when she couldn’t even talk to one of the good guys without sliding into an abyss of anxiety?
Liz lifted her head. And realized where she was. Where her subconscious had led her.
Paradise Christian Church.
Calm poured over and through her. A sense of focus, of purpose.
Rachel.
Gooseflesh raced up Liz’s arms. She whispered her sister’s name, her thoughts and senses flooded with her. She felt her presence so keenly, she fully expected to see her emerge from the church. Rachel would smile, wave and cross over in that goofy loping gait of hers, the one more like a golden retriever’s than a grown woman’s. She would enfold Liz in her arms for a big warm hug.
And everything would be okay.
“Are you all right?”
With a start, Liz jerked her gaze from the church entrance. A woman she had never seen before stood in front of her, expression concerned.
Liz blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
The woman held out a bottle of water. “I own the store across the street. You look like you could use this.”
“Thanks. I really could.” Liz managed a weak smile and took the bottle. She cracked the seal and took a long drink. She felt better immediately.
“This heat is vicious. I tell visitors to keep water with them at all times. Staying hydrated is the key.”
The woman smiled again and Liz realized this was the most beautiful woman she had ever met. A natural blonde, the way some very young children are, with eyes the color of a perfect summer sky.
Liz returned her smile. “What do I owe you for the water?”
She waved aside the offer. “My treat.”
“A real Good Samaritan. In this day and age no less.”
