Winslow Talbot left the gallery showing at nine o'clock feeling jazzed about her interview with the Nicaraguan artist and his artwork. One of his paintings, depicting a lush courtyard, would look perfect on the wall behind her dining room table. The empty coffee mug and the hibiscus flower on the stone bench inspired thought-provoking questions. She was both journalist and photographer for the society magazine, Dazzle, while covering smaller events. Once in her car, she flipped through the pictures on her digital camera and liked what she saw. As Nora Jones sang from the CD player, that nagging emptiness settled in the pit of her stomach. She enjoyed doing these articles; nothing too serious or deep. She did enjoy them. So why did she feel just a bit unsatisfied? Because of Alex Díaz. She made a sound of disgust, started her car, and turned north onto A1A. Even at this time of night, Miami Beach traffic was a thick but steady flow. The air was warm and slightly muggy, but she'd taken down the roof anyway. Neon pulsed in colors all around her, and so did the people who walked down the sidewalks and milled outside restaurants and bars. An ocean breeze sent everything into motion: leaves, flowers, hair, and the silky dresses of three women walking toward a club. They didn't seem to mind how much thigh showed—or even a bit of derriere, courtesy of the thong one of them wore. The girls reminded her of her stepsister Ashlyn. What had the fight been about that made her run away from the fiancé she seemed to adore? Ashlyn had dated on and off over the past several years, and Winslow couldn't remember her once running off without the current beau. None of those romances had become this serious. A chilling thought assailed her. What if Jayce Bishop had done something to Ashlyn? After all, no one knew Jayce that well. Winslow acknowledged that her