"Look, dickwad, it's not gonna happen." His phone must've vibrated, because he picked up the call and got caught up in it.

Mike took the hint and headed back to his bedroom. If James wouldn't drive him, he'd find another way. In fact, he was already making a plan. "You're just scared," he called over his shoulder.

"You're just a dumb shit." A football rocketed out the door, and Mike dived to the floor. The ball smacked against the hallway wall, leaving a mark. Mom would be pissed. But then she was gonna be really mad, anyway, if she ever figured out that Mike intended to hitchhike to the beach.

Catherine stood at the bedroom window on the west end of the lodge. From her vantage point on the second floor, she was able to see through the trees to the ocean, glittering in the afternoon sun. Far off, on the horizon, a stubborn bank of clouds threatened to roll inland, bringing with it drizzle and fog, staving off summer for a few more days.

Things had become complicated again, perhaps more complicated than before. There was the visit from Becca and Lorelei; that in and of itself was disturbing. And Catherine had witnessed the expressions on the rest of her charges, especially Ravinia, who was forever stroking her long blond hair. She'd glowered a bit, and Catherine sensed she was readying to leave. Cassandra had warned her, and Catherine could see the rebellion in Ravinia's expression, the way she'd listened hungrily to Becca and Laura. With Ravinia, who had always been disobedient and questioning, it was only a matter of time before she bolted. Catherine wouldn't be able to stop her.

Ophelia had appeared a little wary, but then that was her nature.

Lillibeth was the most troubling, as the girl, confined as she was to her chair, desperately wanted her freedom, yet she was slow to develop, filled with innocence and naivete, the kind the outside world took advantage of. Still, she knew there was something out there beyond the walls of Siren Song, and she was chafing at the bit, expecting a world of joy, excitement, and answers, perhaps even help for her condition. She had no knowledge of society's cruelty, how even in times when people were supposed to be "enlightened" and "politically correct," there was still so much hatred, hostility, and distrust.

And then there was the very real, very physical threat of Justice Turnbull.

Catherine, though sometimes considered a jailer, was a pacifist. The old shotgun hidden in the attic had been left there for years; now, however, she'd gone so far as to clean and polish the gun and kept it ready at her bedside. She also had a smaller weapon, garnered from one of Mary's lovers, and she'd placed that handgun in the cabinet in the dining room, hidden behind the silver platter that was used only on special occasions. It was loaded and ready. Pacifist or no, if Justice came for them, she wouldn't think twice about blowing the bastard away.

Anyone who intended to harm any of the women she cared for would have to go through her to get to them. That was just the way it was.

Or had been.

She sensed the life she'd carved out for herself, for the others, was about to change. She only hoped all the girls would be able to adapt to life outside these carefully tended walls when the time came.

Most of the girls were in their rooms now, before dinner. Studying or reading, talking to each other, but observing the quiet time Catherine had insisted upon since she'd been in charge. She took advantage of this time now to hurry down the stairs and outside.

Into the forest she walked. Briskly through the thick ferns and clumps of salal, past berry vines that stretched forward with their thorny vines and under the looming, mossy firs, their branches spreading wide, squirrels scolding from the branches.

Earlier she'd seen Becca and Lorelei walk this same path to the cemetery, watched as they'd huddled over Mary's grave.

Oh, Lord.

That was the trouble with lies, Catherine thought as she passed through the gate and into the small cemetery. If one began to unravel, the whole fabric would soon fray and the ugly truth would be revealed. She eased around some of the plots, images of those who had died sliding behind her eyes, then stopped at the spot where Mary's grave was marked, where once, years before, the earth had been turned and a coffin lowered into a dark hole.

Though some of her children might have been too young to remember the lowering of the ornate pine box, or dropping flowers onto the glossy lid as rain began to fall from the sky, they had stood and watched the loamy earth and sand being shoveled over the coffin.

Catherine remembered.

Once again she felt that old animosity, that depth of fury boiling through her blood, as she thought of her sister's callousness, her disregard for those children she had brought into the world.

Mary, in her own way, had been a monster.

And so, Catherine had killed her. Oh, not physically, of course. Killed her memory. And that was when the lying had begun, here, in this forgotten graveyard where Mary's casket now rotted, nothing inside it but stones.

Mary, or what was left of the woman whose mind had slowly soured upon her, was still very much alive.

In exile.

Trapped on a solitary little island beyond the rocky dot of land known as Serpent's Eye, where the lighthouse stood. Mary's island was just as small and even harder to reach, so no one ever bothered but Catherine, in Earl's boat.

Mary lived there in a life of solitude, and none of her daughters knew it.

Now Catherine peered through the surrounding stands of fir and hemlock, to the peekaboo view of the ocean. Here, where large rocks, capricious winds, and high tides made travel difficult at best, it had been easy enough to get rid of her sister. Her gaze centered on her sister's island, the one that had been named Echo Island by the locals for the way the sound refracted off the island's sharply planed rock walls. Earl, who had worked for the Colony most of his life, had been there the most recently to drop off supplies.

Catherine couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Mary.

"Dear God," she whispered, closing her eyes and praying that none of Mary's daughters ever learned of what she'd done.

The first cramp cut through Laura's abdomen as she stood in line at the deli counter of the Drift In Market, the store where she'd worked as a teenager. One second she was peering through the glass case in the deli department and trying to decide between the turkey on sourdough or the ham on rye sandwich, and the next a dull, swift pain was searing through her.

"No," she said aloud, and the girl behind the counter glanced up, her knife poised over the hero she was about to halve.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." Laura held up a hand and made her way to the restroom near the back of the market. Fortunately it was free. She bolted the lock and tried to convince herself that she was wrong, that she hadn't felt the contraction, that she wasn't miscarrying . . . but the evidence was there.

She was spotting.

Oh, please . . . no . . .

The sharp pains, cramping as if from a heavy period, slicing through her lower torso weren't a good sign. She knew what was happening, and she also knew it wasn't uncommon to miscarry within the first two months of pregnancy. Still, it shocked her just the same, and she wanted to deny it, to fix whatever was broken inside her, to save the precious life that had barely begun to form.

But there was too much blood. She waited as long as she could, buying supplies inside the bathroom, crying silently. Empty and alone, she experienced a piercing grief to the point that she couldn't move for almost an hour. People jiggled the door handle but she didn't answer.

When she could, she walked numbly out of the store, lunch forgotten, and drove straight to her house without consciously being aware of the other cars and bicyclists traveling along the road.

All her thoughts were concentrated on the tiny life that she'd so desperately wanted. But it was too late . . . too late. . . .

Harrison had just finished with the lock on the back door, and the new window was in place when she arrived. She managed a weak smile for him but dodged a longer embrace. "Give me a sec," she said, then grabbed some clean clothes from her closet and locked herself in her bathroom, where the signs of her miscarriage continued.

She'd lost the baby.

Tears filled her eyes and her throat swelled shut.

Sadness clamped around her soul.

She'd only known she was pregnant for a week, and yet she'd felt such a bond with this baby, such hope for their future.

Twisting on the handles on the shower, she bit back her sobs. Stripping out of her clothes, she stepped under the needles of hot water; then, once the water was loud enough to muffle her voice, she let go, crying softly as the warm spray washed over her muscles.

No! No! No!

This can't be happening!

Please, God, spare this poor little innocent!

Her shoulders shook with her sobs.

With everything that had happened to her in the last week, losing the baby was, by far, the worst. She'd wanted a child for years, and even though she and Byron were divorced and she would have to raise the little girl alone, she hadn't cared. But . . . oh, dear God . . . She leaned against the tiles and felt the water ease her muscles. A part of her wanted to deny what was happening, but she couldn't.

She wasn't just spotting; she was having a full-blown heavy period.

There was nothing to be done but accept her loss.

It would take time.

A lot of time.

She slid down the wall and sat, arms over her knees, on the floor of the tub as the water ran over her.

"You bastard," she said, as if Justice could hear her. "You damned son of a bitching bastard!" Her fist curled and she called to him again. Using all her strength, she closed her eyes and sent out the warning.

Come and get me, you freak. Just try to come and get me!

And then, spent, she shut him out. If it weren't for him, chasing her down the hill, terrifying her in her own home, sending out his hate-filled, hissing messages, she might not have lost the baby.

Fury and grief twisting her insides, she turned off the taps and, shivering, wrapped herself in a huge towel.

Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!

The mirror over the sink was fogged from the steam in the bathroom. Even so, she saw her reflection through the mist. Wan skin, eyes that were puffy and red, a mouth that was a line of sadness, grief etched in the small lines of her face-and something more. Something deeper and darker than her sadness was the fierce determination to destroy the monster who had tried to ruin her life, the maniac who had taunted her for almost a week.

No more!

Never again!

Placing her hands on the sink's rim, she forced herself to take in deep breaths as water from her wet hair dripped into the basin.

She heard a tap on the door. "Hey," Harrison said, his voice filled with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she lied, loud enough that he could hear her. "I'll-I'll be out in a second."

Pull it together, Lorelei. You have to pull it together. No matter what. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think of the little life that hadn't made it, and as she did, the fury, in a full-blown blood red cloud, filled her mind.

"Okay," he said uncertainly, and she felt a fresh onslaught of hot tears burning the back of her eyelids. She fought them off as she dried off and stepped into fresh clothes. New underwear, jeans, and a V-necked sweater. She wiped the condensation from the mirror so that she could better view the damage, then pulled her hair into a ponytail, slapped on lipstick, and tried to hide the damage tears had done to her eyes with liner and mascara. She knew she should probably contact her doctor, but what was there to be done, really? Her body had done its part. It was over.

Eventually, she pulled herself together and walked out of the bathroom to find Harrison seated on her couch, his laptop open on the coffee table.

"Big story?" she asked.

"Yeah, I've almost made it to another level of backgammon." He cracked a smile, and she forced one in return but turned away, not ready for his scrutiny. There was a part of her that wanted to tumble into his arms and cling to him, to blurt out the truth, to tell him of her pain, but she had to hold back. She hadn't told him about the baby when she'd thought she'd be a mother; there just was no reason to bring it up now. One question would lead to another, and another, and eventually they would end up discussing her ex-husband and how she'd gotten pregnant.

"Hungry?" he asked, climbing to his feet.

"Starved," she lied.

"Me, too." He glanced around the house. "Maybe you should pack some things. I changed the lock and the window's back in the door, but until Turnbull is caught, this place isn't secure."

"It is my home." She looked at the living room with its worn matching chairs and couch with sagging pillows. Books lined the shelves around the fireplace, a few pieces of abstract art splashed color on the walls, and the faded rug covering the hardwood floors gave the place what she thought of as eclectic chic.

"I know, but if you insist on staying here, I'm moving in."

"Okay," she said. He was clearly surprised by her rapid capitulation, so she said, "Justice tried to contact me earlier, while I was with Becca in the graveyard. I shut him out. But today I called to him."

"What? Without me?"

"I'm tired of running, Harrison. Let's face the bastard. I'm ready."

CHAPTER 38.

"Are you out of your mind?" Harrison demanded, double-checking that the locks were secure. "You called that psycho?"

"It was originally your idea, remember?"

"That's before I thought you could really do it," he admitted.

"When you were trying to get info for your story."

"Well . . . yes . . ." God, he'd been such a fool. Now she was on the warpath, determined to come face-to-face with the maniac who had nearly sliced her to ribbons. "But then he came here and nearly killed you and . . . now you're calling and taunting him again? Laura, you don't have to do this." He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off.

"Don't try to distract me. It won't work. I can't live the rest of my life in fear," she said evenly, and he wondered what had transformed her. Had it been meeting with her sisters at Siren Song? Visiting Mary's grave? Something Catherine had said? Whatever the case, now Laura was on some kind of mission.

At least that was what it looked like to Harrison.

Gone was the frightened, worried Laura he'd first met, and in her place was a determined, fire-in-her-eyes woman who was ready to do battle, it seemed, at any cost.

"When I was talking to Becca, I heard his voice. It was weaker, maybe because I was with one of my sisters, I don't know, but he found me, and I'm sick of it, sick of living in fear, sick of him being able to terrorize me. Sick of him."

"The police-"

"Don't know him like I do and they don't know that we communicate." Before he could even suggest that she confide in Stone or Dunbar, she held up a hand. "They wouldn't believe me if I told them, so don't even go there. They've promised me protection, and I'm pretty sure they're keeping this house under watch, so I'm safer here than a lot of places."

"Not twenty-four/seven, they're not," Harrison reminded. "This is no sanctuary."

"Agreed. Not for me. Nor my sisters. Any wall around Siren Song isn't strong enough to keep him out, either." She leveled her calm gaze at him. "He has to be stopped."

He wouldn't be able to change her mind. He could see that clearly. "I've got a gun," he admitted. "And a license to carry it. It's locked in my apartment."

"Why the hell don't you have it on you?"

He thought of the violence he'd seen in his life; how his brother-in-law had been gunned down, an innocent victim, one homicide victim among the hundreds across the country in recent times. "I didn't think we needed it, until the other night."

"And now?"