if you must know.” She’d touched the bruise on her cheek that she’d gotten when the safe house the cops had put her in had been attacked.
Gator had given her a slow knowing nod, reached for the cash she’d offered him and hadn’t tried to talk her out of it.
But clearly he hadn’t wanted to bring her out here. Nor did he seem to want to leave her here. She thought about asking him why as he paused, then started the outboard.
“Send word by a fisherman or anyone heading to the mainland and I’ll come get you,” he said, his gaze softening. “Even if it’s in the middle of the night.”
Why would she want to leave in the middle of the night? His look said it wouldn’t be long before she couldn’t wait to get out off the island.
He touched the brim of his cap and turned the bow back the way they’d come. At least she thought it was the way they’d come.
She picked up the suitcases from the pier and started toward the villa, figuring she would come back for the box with her paints and art supplies. She couldn’t help but wonder what Gator would have said if he knew the truth.
That she was the only witness to the cold-blooded murder of a police officer named Zeke Hartung.
Make that missing witness.
The story, complete with sensational headlines, had been splashed across every South Florida paper followed quickly she didn’t doubt by the attack at the safe house and the death of two more officers.
As she looked up at the villa, she wondered if there was any place safe enough or far away from civilization to elude Landry Jones. If it wasn’t Cape Diablo, then no place existed.
The sound of the boat’s motor died off into the distance. She looked back once but the boat had already disappeared from sight. All she could see were mangrove islands on one horizon and the endless Gulf of Mexico on the other.
She couldn’t remember ever feeling so isolated, so alone—not even in the middle of South Dakota, miles from the nearest town. Surely all the people looking for her would have a hard time finding her. But she didn’t delude herself. She wouldn’t be safe until Landry Jones was behind bars.
Willa stopped in front of the villa. She could hear the waves lapping at the dock and the wind whispering in the palms, but also the faint sound of music.
She looked up again to see an elderly woman through the sheer curtains. The woman wore a white gown and appeared to be waltzing to the music with an invisible partner.
“Hello.”
Willa jumped at the sound of the male voice next to her, making her drop one of the suitcases.
“Here let me take that.” He stepped around her and picked up the suitcase and reached for the second one. “I thought I heard a boat.”
She could only stare at him, her heart thundering in her chest. She’d been told there were four apartments in the villa, all vacant when she’d inquired.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said. He appeared to be in his early thirties, blond, blue-eyed and tan—her original idea of what Florida men should all look like. “What’s your apartment number?”
“Three.”
“Then you’re right up there.” He pointed through an arch. She could see a wrought iron railing, a blood-red riot of bougainvillea flowers climbing the wall behind it and a weathered door with a 3 painted crudely on it.
He took the other suitcase from her and carrying both, headed through the archway into a tiled courtyard. She started to turn back to retrieve the box with her painting supplies from the dock. “I’ll get that for you,” he said.
Still a little unsteady after the boat ride, she decided to let him and followed him through the archway, seeing that she was right—there was a pool. Unfortunately it was dark and murky, apparently abandoned years ago but never drained.
“I’m Odell Grady,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s my apartment over there.” He motioned across the pool to what had once been the pool house, she guessed.
“How many tenants are there?”
“Just you and me right now. Unless you count the old gal up there.” He motioned to a third-floor tower section of the villa where she’d seen the woman dancing. “She’s grandfathered in, so to speak.”
He stopped partway up the stairs and turned to look back at her. “You were warned about her, weren’t you?”
She hadn’t been warned about anything except the isolation and no one to meet her at the dock, but she wasn’t worried about some elderly woman who waltzed with a phantom lover. Odell was another story altogether.
“If you like peace and quiet, you definitely came to the right place,” he said as he scaled the stairs. “That’s why I came here. How about you?” He’d reached the landing and stopped next to one of the doors to turn to look back at her.
“Peace and quiet,” she agreed as she topped the stairs. She wondered if it would be possible to get either with Odell Grady around.
He nodded, openly studying her. He had put down the suitcases just outside the door and held out his hand.
It took her a moment to realize he was waiting for the key to open her door.
“Thank you. I can take it from here.”
He seemed to hesitate, then looked embarrassed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to come on so strong. This place gets to you after a while. I hadn’t realized what it would be like, not talking to another human being.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Too long obviously. I’ve been talking your ear off, sorry.” He stepped back, giving her space. “I’ll get your other package.” He turned and trotted down the stairs.
She opened the apartment door but didn’t enter, instead watching him, worrying.
Odell returned with the box. “It’s pretty heavy. Want me to set it inside?”
“Thank you.” She let him enter but stayed outside until he’d put the box down and came back out.
He must have seen how uncomfortable she was having him in her apartment. Actually being pretty much alone on the island with him—since she doubted the elderly woman upstairs would be much help if she needed it.
“So, welcome to Cape Diablo,” Odell said, dusting off his hands on his shorts. He met her gaze. He didn’t look dangerous, but then she’d thought the same thing of Landry Jones, hadn’t she.
“If you need anything, I’ll be right down there pounding on my manual typewriter. I’m a writer,” he said walking backward a few steps. “Fiction.”
She relaxed a little and felt guilty for the rude way she’d reacted to his kindness.
“How about you?”
“You mean what I do
