Chapter 50

Rachel burst out of sleep with a strangled scream and the feeling of strong hands crushing her windpipe.

Springing upright in bed, gagging, she grabbed the .38 revolver that lay on the nightstand. The gun was already loaded. Breathing hard, she clutched it in her trembling hands and swept it across the bedroom.

The lamps were off, but a nightlight burned on the left side of the bed, radiating a greenish glow that cast the room in an unsettling, alien light. The dresser, the bookcase, and the leather club chair might have been mysterious artifacts beamed into the space by an advanced civilization.

But she was alone.

She cleared her throat and drew in several deep breaths. She placed the gun back on the nightstand. The digital clock read a quarter past seven in the morning.

She had gotten into bed around midnight, but she felt as if she had barely slept at all. Dexter haunted her sleep just as he did her waking hours.

Her night terrors meant Dexter was still alive, and at large. If he had been taken into police custody—or killed—her dreams would have been less disturbing. She might have actually slept peacefully.

She swung her legs to the side of the mattress. Her sneakers sat beside the bed, ready to be slipped on at a moment’s notice. She’d gone to bed fully dressed in a pink sweat shirt and matching pants.

Although she was safer here than she was perhaps anywhere else on the planet, she needed to be prepared for anything, at any time.

She squeezed into her shoes, laced them up. Standing, she clipped a leather gun holster to her waistband, fit the revolver snug in it, and pulled her shirt over the gun.

The deadly weight on her hip comforted her. She didn’t dare to go anywhere without the .38. Not even to the bathroom.

She padded across the creaky floorboards, to the balcony door. She disengaged the double-bolt lock, unlatched the security chain, and stepped outside.

It was a broad balcony, constructed of sun-and-salt weathered wood. A circular table woven from rattan and a pair of chairs stood in the center.

There was a chill in the salty air; the thermometer beside the door read fifty-two degrees. Rachel shoved her hands deep into her pockets, and moved to the railing.

Beyond the balcony, there was the beach, white, and flat, fringed on the landward side with tall Spartina grass. Beyond the shore lay the vast Atlantic Ocean. The moon rode the pre-dawn sky, giving the crashing waves a pale, eerie radiance.

This time of day, the delicate interval between light and darkness, her aunt Betty had called “dayclean”—for the night sky was being cleansed to make way for the sun and the promise of a new day. It was a sacred period, a time for prayer and reflection.

But since Rachel was a child, no matter the time of day, the sight of the ocean had tended to soothe her spirit. When she stood on the beach and gazed at the seemingly infinite body of water, she felt as if she lingered on the brink of unraveling all of life’s mysteries, of understanding her ultimate purpose in the greater scheme of things.

At other times, however—times like then—when she stared at the water, she felt insignificant in the face of such vastness. As if she could walk down the balcony steps, shuffle across the shore, and wade into the sea until completely submerged, and the universe wouldn’t give a damn, because she was as meaningless as the shells that dotted the sand.

No, she was not meaningless. She was condemned. People had been killed because of her. Aunt Betty. Maybe Thad and his partner. Maybe Tanisha. Maybe many others. All because of her.

If she had never married Dexter, none of those awful things would have ever happened. Everyone would still be alive.

If she hadn’t run away from Illinois, compelling Dexter to initiate his murderous hunt, everyone would still be alive.

Condemned.

Fifty paces would carry her down the steps and into the water. She could put an end to it all. She deserved a watery grave for all the damage she had caused.

She faced the stairway. But she couldn’t make her feet move.

There was the baby to consider. The child she had conceived with Joshua, the only man she had ever loved. Although she herself deserved to die, she couldn’t sacrifice their child on the altar of her guilt.

She pressed her lips together, turned back to regard the ocean.

Shortly after dawn, the ferry would begin its voyages from the mainland to the island. She had a strong feeling that she was going to have a visitor—or two—today.

She would have to alert the authorities.