Nowhere To Hide. Debby Giusti

came snooping around the club, I knew you was out of your element. You got nerve, girlfriend. I like that. Plus, I want a new start. I’ve had enough of this life. Want to move my Mama and Charise away from the city. Get us a little country place.”

      “Be careful.”

      “You know I will. By the way, that reporter was back.”

      “Trish Delaney? What’d she want?”

      “Information, just like you. Only she got the cold shoulder and an escort to the door. Maybe you should call her.”

      “I…I’m not sure, Ruby.”

      “Whatever. Talk to me in about a week. I might have something by then.”

      Lydia hung up. Hopefully, Ruby would find evidence to prove the club was a front for something illegal. If she was lucky, information about Sonny’s death might surface, as well.

      Whatever Sonny had been involved in now threatened Tyler’s life. Much as it terrified her to hunt Sonny’s killer, she’d do anything to protect her child.

      Lydia pulled down the covers and crawled into bed. Just so Ruby didn’t get hurt in the process.

      Reaching to turn off the bedside lamp, Lydia noticed a small cross-stitch sampler perched near the clock.

      Jesus, I Trust In You, was stitched in tiny Xs across the fabric.

      “If only I could,” she mumbled as she turned off the light.

      The insistent ring of the doorbell woke her. She opened her eyes and squinted against the daylight streaming through the curtains. Her head felt packed with cotton wool. Too little sleep, most of it plagued with dreams of raging infernos, had taken its toll.

      Glancing at the bedside clock, she bolted to a sitting position. Half-past eleven. She had slept far longer than she wanted. Not that she felt rested. Anything but.

      She yanked the closet door open and pulled out the blouse and skirt she’d worn the night before. Slipping them on, she made her way barefoot toward the living room.

      Tyler stood in the doorway of the guest room, dressed in the G.I. Joe briefs and T-shirt he’d slept in. He rubbed his eyes.

      “Who’s at the door?” he asked between yawns.

      “That’s exactly what I’m going to find out.” She strode past him, working to control the fear prickling her spine. Surely, no one from Atlanta could have tracked them down in the short time they’d been on the island. Maybe that nosy security chief wanted more information.

      Stretching on tiptoe, she peered through the door’s tiny peephole. The distorted face of a high schooler, probably sixteen or seventeen, filled the glass circle.

      Mustering her sternest voice, she demanded, “Who’s there?”

      “James, from The Country Store. Ms. O’Connor called in a delivery long-distance. Said I was to get everything here by eleven. The storm washed out one of the roads. Had to take a detour.”

      Lydia unlocked the door, inched it open and glanced first at The Country Store scripted on the truck’s side panel and then at the same logo stitched on the youth’s polo. She let out a sigh of relief and opened the door wider.

      The kid nodded toward the large cardboard box in his arms. “Ms. O’Connor said to send over everything a boy age six might need. I’ve got a box filled with ladies’ things and another one with odds and ends in the truck.”

      He dropped the first box inside the door and scrambled down the steps to the delivery truck, where he grabbed two more boxes and deposited them one on top of the other in the entryway.

      Lydia reached for her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

      “Ms. O’Connor took care of it, ma’am.” He climbed into his truck and waved as he backed out of the driveway.

      Before Lydia could close the door, a second van pulled up to the house and an equally enthusiastic teen bounded toward the porch, carrying two large grocery bags.

      “Harry’s Market. More groceries in the truck.”

      Resigning herself to accepting Katherine’s generosity, Lydia pointed the boy in the direction of the kitchen and watched as he hauled the bags into the house.

      “Be happy to unpack the groceries, if you need help.” He placed the last sack on the counter.

      “Thanks, that’s not necessary.” Lydia dug in her handbag and pulled out a few dollar bills.

      The teen walked back to where she stood by the door and accepted the tip.

      Shoving the money into his pocket, he said, “You’re from Fulton County. Atlanta, right?”

      She nodded. “That’s right.”

      “Saw license plates just like yours this morning.” The kid shook his head. “Stupid Mercedes almost ran me off the road.”

      The hair rose on the back of Lydia’s neck. “What…what color?”

      “Black.”

      She stiffened. Not the car from Atlanta?

      “Probably tourists in a hurry to get to the beach,” a voice said behind her. Lydia turned to see Matt Lawson leaning against the front porch railing.

      “Morning, ma’am.” He pulled the baseball cap with the Sanctuary logo off his head and wrapped a tight smile around his broad face. From the looks of his rumpled khaki pants and navy polo, he, too, appeared to be wearing the same clothes he’d worn the night before.

      Lydia noticed the creases at the corner of his eyes, more pronounced in the light of day. Although clean shaven, his face was drawn with fatigue. No doubt the chief had not enjoyed the luxury of even a few hours of sleep.

      “Hey, Mr. Lawson.” The delivery boy acknowledged Matt with a nod. “Heard there was another break-in last night on the mainland.”

      “I’m sure Sheriff Turner’s on top of it, Blake.”

      “Harry said no one local would do such a thing.” The teen turned toward the delivery van. “‘Probably dock riffraff, pure and simple.’ That’s what Harry said.”

      “We’ll let the sheriff handle the case, Blake.”

      The kid opened the driver’s door, then glanced back, a chagrined expression on his face. “Yes, sir.”

      “He’ll let us know when he uncovers something. ’Till then, you keep your mind on your business and not the sheriff’s. Hear me? And I want to see you at church tomorrow.”

      “I’ll be there.” Blake climbed into the van, started the engine and pulled out of the drive.

      Lydia stood in the open doorway and glanced down at her bare feet. Her cheeks warmed with a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. Once again, the chief had caught her by surprise.

      Why did that bother her?

      Probably because she was out of her element and scared to death every time she thought of how close her son had come to being kidnapped—by someone in a black Mercedes. The delivery boy had seen the same make of car, not the same car.

      Get a grip, Lydia.

      She looked up to find the security chief staring at her.

      “More questions, Mr. Lawson?” Her voice carried more than a hint of disapproval. “I suppose Katherine called you this morning. She probably told you to make amends.”

      He shook his head. “Haven’t heard from Ms. O’Connor today. And I was doing my job last night.”

      “Of course you were.” She let out a deep breath, fatigue skewing her good judgment. She was taking out her frustration with Atlanta’s dirty cops on a guy who managed security systems and island gate guards.

      “Look,