"Anyone who has ever been caught in the path of a hurricane should respond to Anne Wingate's eerie description of Hurricane Anna as 'a malevolent spider of winds and rain drawing strength from the waters beneath her ... .far-flung legs.' Ms. Wingate, a former police officer, paces the events of her suspenseful story to that heavy, ominous energy that collects around the ever-uncertain path of a major hurricane."--New York Times Book Review
"Galveston, Texas, in the eye of a killer hurricane ... Chief of Police Mark Shigata and his right-hand deputy, Al Quinn ... struggle[e] with roads turned into torrents, houses smashed to rubble, flying trees and nonexistent services; they fight together to gather evidence as the body count grows." Kirkus, starred review
"Wingate's suspenseful tale, which adds a strong romantic strain to a police procedural, provides in able follow-up to her detectives's debut. One hopes to see more of Shigata and the warm and human Quinn."--Publishers Weekly
Red and green make brown.
But the liquid in the margarita glass wasn't brown, because blood is heavier than a frothy mixture of tequila and lime juice. The blood had run down to the bottom of the glass, and the alcohol floating on top had sealed off the air so that the blood hadn't darkened. Now it looked like some exotic red-and-green layered cocktail. The tulip-shaped glass on the carpeted floor was almost the only small thing still upright in the entire room. Was that an accident--
Gwen put her hand over her mouth and ran for the bathroom. She vomited and screamed, and choked as the vomit and the scream bubbled out together. Then she bolted for the telephone.
Of course the line was dead.
She went down the stairs, stumbling in the darkness because the overhead lights were out. She heard glass crunching underfoot and knew why the lights were out, and she wondered why she hadn't noticed that coming in. But of course she had noticed. She just hadn't had any reason to care.
What if he's still out there?
She couldn't stay in the house, and she couldn't leave. Her car was a barely visible hulk in the distance twenty yards away. She had no idea where her car keys were--probably in her purse, which she had dropped somewhere in the house and wasn't about to go looking for.
The car was unlocked, because she'd planned to come right back out and bring in her suitcases. If she couldn't get away, at least maybe it would be harder for him to get at her, if she were in the car and the doors were locked--Then she remembered the extra key hidden in a magnetic holder inside the front bumper.
If it was still there, if it hadn't dropped out, if she could get it--
If she could get it, and get back inside the car, and drive--
Start the car very carefully, very calmly, drive slowly, stay calm, stay calm--
If she couldn't get to the key, or if the key was gone, at least she could lean on the horn and maybe someone would hear her. Only of course nobody would hear the horn, just as no one had heard the screaming, because the pounding of the rain and the howling of the wind would drown out any other sound.
But you have to try. You have to try. You can't just sit and let somebody kill you.
Who was the other one? Judy was dead on the couch, her throat slashed. Blood had run down her arm, dripping into the glass on the floor. Josie was dead on the dining-room floor with a butcher knife in her back. But who was the other one? The one with silver-blond hair like Gwen's, the one dead in the bathtub with her face so cut and hacked no one could ever recognize her? What was she doing there? Who was she?