The Drowning Girls. Paula Treick DeBoard

upstairs, and there’s nowhere left to go at that point,” Kelsey put in.

      “I’m sure there’s no—”

      “Absolutely not,” Phil snapped. “You’re staying here. And put some clothes on, both of you.”

      Danielle looked down at her legs, as if she were seeing them for the first time. Kelsey only smiled.

      “Stay,” I ordered, as if they were disobedient pets. I followed Phil as he barreled down the front walkway, the beam of his flashlight bringing into stark relief the rounded humps of our landscaping rocks. I saw a dark figure standing in the middle of the road, and he spotted me, moving into the yellow glow of an overhead carriage light. He was tall, gray hair cropped close to his head, a button-down shirt tucked firmly into his waistband.

      “Everything all right at your house?” he called.

      “We’re fine. I guess you heard that, too?”

      “Sounded like a scream.” He extended a hand. “I’m Doug Blevins.”

      “Liz—Liz McGinnis. That’s my husband, Phil,” I gestured to Phil’s retreating form, a dark shadow preceded by the beam of his flashlight. “I’ve met your wife and son a few times.”

      “That’s what I hear. Fran said it was nice to have another normal person around.”

      I laughed. “I feel the same way.”

      Again, the scream came. It was louder this time, and definitely female. I whirled around, trying to get a sense of its origin.

      “That’s it,” Doug said, digging in his pocket. “Woman screaming? I’m calling the police.”

      Phil was coming back from the clubhouse, his flashlight zigzagging toward us.

      Doug took a step away, speaking into his phone. “Yes, I’m calling from The Palms. Alameda County, outside Livermore.”

      “It’s not coming from the clubhouse,” Phil panted. “Everything’s shut up for the night.” He frowned at Doug Blevins, overhearing part of his conversation.

      The scream became a breathy wail, carried by someone coming off the trail at a sprint. Footsteps pounded closer, and Phil stepped in front of me. “Who’s out there?” he called.

      The running figure became first a woman, then Deanna Sievert in a fitted running tank and shorts, hair escaping her ponytail. Seeing us, she cried out again, more sob than scream this time.

      “Deanna? What happened?” I called.

      She stopped short in front of us, nearly collapsing. Phil caught her by the arm. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

      Her breath came in ragged gasps, and when she straightened up, her face was blotchy with tears. “There was—something—” she wheezed. “On the golf course. These two glowing eyes—”

      “You saw someone out there?” I asked.

      “No, something. At first—I thought it was someone’s dog. But the way it moved—it was feline, just massive—” She doubled over again, hands on her knees. Phil still had her by the arm, as if he were propping her up. “It disappeared when I screamed, and then I ran like hell.”

      Doug joined us, phone in hand. “Police are sending out a patrol. I’m supposed to call back to update them. What did you see, exactly?”

      Deanna repeated her story, only this time the predator seemed larger, stronger, faster, like the great fish that got away. She seemed less scared now, enjoying her position as the center of attention. I focused on Phil’s thumb, which was rotating in a circle on Deanna’s twenty-four-year-old shoulder.

      Doug nodded knowingly. “Sounds like a mountain lion. We’ve had those before, off and on. The drought brings them out here to the golf course. They see all that green and think they’ve got a better chance of finding food.”

      Headlights rounded the curve at the end of the block, blinding us with sudden light in the middle of the street. We didn’t move. It was a dark sedan, but it couldn’t have been the police, especially if they were coming down the winding access road from Livermore.

      “Hey! It’s the Mesbahs.” Deanna waved to them, and Victor rolled down the window. He was wearing a tuxedo, a bow tie unclasped at his neck.

      Myriam leaned across his body, alarmed. “What’s going on?”

      Deanna called into the sedan, “I just saw a mountain lion on the trail!”

      “My God.” Victor shifted the car into Park. Heat radiated from the engine.

      “Well, we don’t actually know—” Phil tried.

      Doug said, “The police are on their way. Actually, I need to call them back, give them an update.” He took a few steps away, redialing.

      Myriam stepped out of the car, holding up the hem of a midnight blue dress, its fabric pooling near her ankles. “You must be so terrified,” she said. Deanna collapsed immediately against her shoulder.

      “You don’t want to mess around with mountain lions,” Victor boomed in his too-loud voice, as if he were educating all of us, everyone in The Palms. “Have you ever seen a mountain lion going after something? They’re just stupendous creatures.”

      “My God, yes,” Myriam said, patting Deanna’s head. “They can just tear something from limb to limb.”

      No one seemed to be listening to Phil, but he kept talking. “We need to keep cool heads here. Deanna’s not sure what she saw, exactly.”

      “Who’s that?” Deanna sniffed, pointing down the street.

      It was the Jorgensens, dressed in dark jeans and white shirts. The hard soles of Sonia’s sandals smacked the asphalt. “Is everyone okay?” she called.

      “Sonia! It was horrible, you wouldn’t believe—” Deanna began.

      “So horrible,” Myriam echoed, as if she had been on the trail, too, taking a lap in her evening gown.

      Tim Jorgensen shook hands with Victor and Phil and nodded at me. Deanna repeated her story, trembling when she got to the glowing eyes.

      Doug was back, sliding his cell phone into his pocket. “They’re going to send out some kind of wild animal team in the morning.”

      “In the morning!” Myriam scoffed. “What good will that do?”

      “I don’t suppose there’s much they can do out there in the middle of the night,” Doug said. “And we hardly want them driving out on the golf course.”

      Tim looked shocked. “No, of course not. They could do a lot of damage out there.”

      “But we need to let people know,” Deanna protested. “I mean, think of all the people who jog first thing in the morning. The Browerses, for one. Sometimes Daisy’s out there, too. And then there’s the Berglands, with all those kids. You don’t think a mountain lion could hop one of those fences along the course, do you?”

      “I don’t see why not,” Victor said. He clapped Phil on the shoulder. “What do you say, mate? I’ve got a handgun. If you give me a minute to change out of this monkey suit, we could head out there in my cart and chase down some mountain lions.”

      I could feel Phil’s annoyance. He hated the Crocodile Dundee act, the assumption that all Australians were swashbuckling men in dungarees and a hat rimmed with jagged teeth. “Let’s keep a cool head here,” he repeated.

      “But we want to be sure,” Victor said. “It’s about keeping our women safe, right?”

      “A handgun, Victor? You’re not serious.” Myriam shook her head. “And I don’t think the cart is charged, even. When’s the last time you went golfing?”

      “Rich has a .22,” Deanna offered. “He’s