The Complete Colony Series. Lisa Jackson

again.

      From the upstairs window, I watch her leave.

      Frightened.

      Trembling.

      Scrabbling around like a frantic chicken running from a fox. Throwing her bags into the backseat. Too late. I’ve seen what’s on her computer screen, know where she’s been, what she’s doing. She’s getting close—stopping by the old woman’s shop, asking questions.

      That damned old hag. Never to be trusted. I should have known, should have dealt with the crone.

      I think of it—the killing of the old one, the traitor. I’ve thought of it often enough, suspected she knows more than she pretends, but here, in this tiny gossipy town, it might prove difficult.

      And now there are others, one of whom is fleeing even now.

      But she can’t run far.

      And I know where she’ll go.

      Back to the others.

      She’ll lead me to them.

      Standing behind the gossamer curtains, I finger the long-bladed knife in my hands and wait until the taillights of her car disappear around the corner, heading east, away from the sea, to the highway that runs parallel to the ocean, wandering in twisting turns north until it reaches the intersection where it splits and she’ll head inland.

      To the others.

      As she vanishes I rub my thumb over the razor-sharp blade, imagining what the thin steel edge can do. Quick and clean, a neat slice across the jugular and carotid.

      But the time isn’t right. I need this one to lead me to the others.

      Even though she has no scent, no odor.

      She’s not one of them.

      But she must be followed.

      And she must be stopped.

      Once I have no further use for her.

      Chapter Eleven

      Glenn Stafford raced down the stairs of his house, a gargantuan Georgian building of nearly four thousand square feet that Gia had insisted upon. He hoped his wife wouldn’t catch him on his way out. He was late getting to the restaurant. Late getting tasks done. Late, always late.

      And that asshole cop McNally had called, wanting to meet with him. Wanting to meet with all of them, he’d said. But was he telling the truth? Or had he singled Glenn out? Not that there was any reason. Lord, no. He’d barely known Jessie Brentwood. She’d been Hudson’s girl, flirt that she was. But she’d had no serious interest in him, or any of them, well…maybe Zeke?…but that was short-lived. Nope, the girl had been interested in Hudson Walker, then, now, and probably forever.

      Glenn headed toward the back of the house. He’d put McNally off. God, he didn’t need more damn stress. The restaurant was enough. Hadn’t he heard over and over again how difficult it was to make a go of a restaurant? Hadn’t he? But he’d believed in himself, believed in Scott. But Jesus…things were running in the red. How, how to get more interest in the place, more exposure? Did they need more Internet advertising? What the hell did it take to make a spot “in” or “hip” or whatever they called it these days? Not enough people knew about Blue Note, and that goddamned venture in Lincoln City wasn’t even hardly off the ground and Glenn felt it already might be doomed. Bleeding money. Scott had more faith in the place; he was the one taking off for the coast, trying “to get ’er going.” But Glenn was in charge of Blue Note, and it was bad business. Bad, slow business.

      And…something was off financially. Things just weren’t adding up, literally. Did they have a sneaky employee who had found a way to siphon off funds and juggle the books or inventory? The books just didn’t seem right, but Glenn hadn’t found where the discrepancy was—yet. It was only a matter of time.

      Passing through the kitchen, his hand on the door to the garage, he saw the pile of yesterday’s mail. Damn Gia. She hadn’t even looked through it. Probably a mountain of bills that he couldn’t pay. And that damn lease on the restaurant. Highway robbery. It was drowning them in a sea of red ink. Drowning them.

      Glenn felt a burning in his throat. Acid reflux. His stomach was probably riddled with ulcers. He didn’t even want to jump Gia’s bones anymore, but then ever since her last miscarriage she’d been a crying, chocolate-devouring, weepy-eyed rag doll. Hell, she’d sworn she never wanted children when they got married, but now she came after him with lacy, baby-doll lingerie and a panting avid mouth, the only spark of energy she could ever muster—all in the name of pregnancy with a capital “P.”

      Lucky for him, Mr. Ready spent most of his time curled up and flaccid these days.

      Which wasn’t helping their marriage much, but Glenn had bigger fish to fry.

      He almost ignored the mail, irritated at Gia’s apathy. If sex wasn’t on the agenda, she was useless. Like a queen bee.

      Only good for mating and laying eggs. Tended to by minions. One of those repulsive insects—maybe termites—had a queen that was a white, quivering blob—couldn’t move unless it was pushed and prodded by the workers. Well, that was Gia these days. A blob.

      “Glenn?”

      He looked over. Well, there the blob was. Risen from her bed. Red-eyed and scraggly haired. She’d been pretty once, not so long ago, but now she didn’t care. Simply didn’t care.

      “Where’re you going?” she asked.

      “To work.”

      “I thought you had tonight off.” A whine entered her voice.

      “I never have a night off. Never. I work all the time. It’s called owning your own business, y’know?” And what do you do?

      “Why can’t you divide your time with Scott?”

      “Because Scott’s at Blue Ocean, trying to get the menu in line with the clientele. And we have problems at Blue Note.”

      “We have no life, Glenn. No life!” She threw up her hands in despair. “What are we going to do?”

      “I don’t know what you’re going to do. I’m going to work.”

      “When’s Scott coming back?”

      “I don’t know,” Glenn mumbled. A lie. Scott usually returned on Sundays, after the weekend, and then he sure as hell put his time in at Blue Note. The man was everywhere, looking over Glenn’s shoulder, criticizing, pointing out when things weren’t done to his satisfaction. Glenn couldn’t fault him, though he’d like to. Right now he wanted to fault someone. Anyone. And he really didn’t want to face Scott tonight, though his partner had said he’d be in later. Well, good. They needed to talk. Seriously talk. Something had to be done or the business would fail. Since he’d personally guaranteed loans against Blue Note and Blue Ocean, everything, including this monster of a house, would be stripped away. How would Gia feel then? “Why didn’t you go through this mail?” he asked.

      “What? Oh.” She rubbed her forehead with both hands. The useless piece of dead weight seemed to sleep all day and all night. Glenn couldn’t imagine what she ever thought she’d do with a kid. From what he’d heard, they never let you sleep at all. “I—I don’t know.” She lifted her fleshy shoulders in a shrug.

      God, she was useless.

      Glenn swept up the pile and sifted through it, making a big production about it, just so she’d know he was the one doing all the work, he was the one supporting them, he was the one.

      “What time’ll you be back?” Her chin was bent down and she looked at him from the tops of her eyes. If she thought that was sexy, she had a rude awakening coming her way. She was about as sexy as cold meatloaf.

      “I’ll call you,” he muttered.

      Bills, bills, bills.

      An