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 suspicions came from her dislike of him, but since she didn't know the source of that dislike, she wasn't going to dismiss it. She passed the road that led to Bay Harbor Islands and her condo and a few minutes later turned into Talbot Tower 's lot. She would water Ashlyn's bonsai collection and take a look around. When she couldn’t locate the card that allowed her access to the parking garage, she pulled into a spot in the lot. The doorman held the massive glass door for her as she entered. The clicking of her heels bounced off marble and glass. The security guard nodded, recognizing her from other visits. Did he think it odd that she rarely came here when Ashlyn was in residence? The elevator shushed to a stop at Ashlyn's floor; hers was the residence on the right. She liked to pretend that it was hers, and in truth, her father, Grant, had given it to her. But Winslow knew he still held the deed. She slipped out of her heels and walked through the rounded foyer to the living room. Rows of glass doors lined the rear wall. The view of the Atlantic Ocean was breathtaking during the day; now it was just a huge black gulf. The interior living room wall was curved, too, and along the upper wall snaked shelves for what must be a hundred champagne bottles, all emptied at some party or club. Ashlyn had affixed gold stars to the best. She'd chosen furniture to play off the curves: kidney-shaped sofas with low, contemporary profiles, lots of glass, all in pastel colors. Her bonsai collection took up a blue glass lacquer shelving unit. Winslow picked up the crystal pitcher and poured water into each of the pots. "There you go, little guys. Aunt Winslow's here to take care of you." In the last two years she'd actually gotten attached to the miniature trees. They each had personalities, like prickly, smooth, or fuzzy. She didn't tell anyone, but she named all her plants at home. Snippets from fashion magazines littered the surface of Ashlyn's glass coffee table. She clipped the tiniest details from outfits and glued them to other pictures. Then she'd buy the clothing and replicate what she'd created on paper. Sometimes the effect was stunning. At the least it was usually interesting. Ashlyn's other trophies were clippings from society magazines. She hunted every local magazine searching for pictures of herself. Attached to the designer wallpaper in the dining room was a huge corkboard. Ashlyn pinned up the snapshot pages depicting the hip crowd at SkyBar, Crobar, and Rumi, at some fashion or awards show with Lil' Kim, a Calvin Klein briefs model, and even the latest Survivor winner. Ashlyn peered out from every page, hamming it up for the camera. Looking at the pictures of young, beautiful