“Oh, you’re welcome, Mrs. Har—Lucy.” I smiled at her as Gary made a beeline for his favorite chair, the pink-silk-cushioned love seat. Mrs. Hartwell, however, didn’t seem to care. “It was nothing, though, really. And Ed’s the one who donated the gas. Could I just ask you quickly what happened to the stuff I had in here? It’s no problem except that Gary’s litter box—”

“Oh, I wanted to talk to you about that, Bree.”

Wait. What? This did not sound good. Had I done something wrong? From the anxious look on her face, it appeared as if I had . . .

“Bree, this morning, while you were gone, the sheriff stopped by—”

“The sheriff?”

What on earth could the sheriff have wanted with me? I hadn’t disobeyed any laws.

Well, except for breaking into my landlady’s house. But that had been in order to rescue her son’s guinea pigs! And I’m sure she’d have wanted me to do that.

And I hadn’t done it alone. I had had a partner in crime.

“Where’s your nephew?” I asked quickly.

“Drew? Oh, he’s out back, looking at the pool. It really is going to need a lot of work if we’re ever going to get it back to the way it was. But we’re so fortunate that’s really the only damage we suffered. So many have it so much worse.”

“Sure. Well, listen, if it’s about the guinea pigs, Drew can help explain. See, he saw Sean Petrovich driving out of town last night. And Sean said he’d take care of them. But then Sean evacuated at the last minute with his girlfriend. So what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t leave them to die. They’re living creatures, just like the rest of us.”

Mrs. Hartwell stared at me, looking bemused. “Honey, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t?” I was confused. “But you said the sheriff—?”

“Oh, yes. Sheriff Hartwell stopped by this morning because he says he’s been receiving emergency calls all day on his satellite phone from the governor. Apparently, you’re a very important young lady. Bree, why didn’t you tell us that your mother is Judge Justine from the radio?”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Little Bridge Island remains closed to anyone who is not currently in residence or is working in an official capacity with the hurricane relief effort. There will be no exceptions by order of the Sheriff’s Office.

I sat on the pink-silk-cushioned love seat, staring at the keypad to the Hartwells’ landline.

I knew by heart the number I was supposed to dial. I just really, really didn’t want to press it.

Instead, I took out my cell phone and looked up the number of my landlady, Lydia Petrovich. Then I pressed the buttons on the landline, dialing her instead.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Lydia? Hi, it’s Sabrina Beckham, your tenant in—”

“Bree!” She sounded relieved to hear from me. “Oh, Bree, sweetheart, how are you? Where are you?”

“I’m in Little Bridge, Lydia, and I just wanted to tell you—”

“You’re in Little Bridge? But how can that be? On television they’re saying that—”

I smiled. “I know what they’re saying on TV, Lydia. But it’s not true. I mean, the apartment building did flood a little, and a few houses along the beach were destroyed, along with the bridge to the mainland. But for the most part, we didn’t receive that much damage.”

I heard her tell someone on her side of the phone everything I’d just said, only in Russian. When she came back on, she sounded excited. “When you say the apartment building flooded a little, how much do you mean?”

“Only a few inches. And please tell Sonny not to worry about R2-D2 and C-3PO, because I got them out. They’re just fine.”

Her tone sharpened. “What do you mean you got them out? What happened to Sean? Sean was supposed to look after them.”

“Well . . .” As matter-of-factly as I could, I told Lydia what had happened with Sean.

But even though I’d been careful not to cast Sean as the bad guy, Lydia was spitting mad by the time I got through. Most of what she said, however, I didn’t understand, since I don’t know many Russian curse words.

“Lydia, Lydia.” I tried to calm her down. “Please. The storm was really, really bad at that point. It was only natural that he was scared. Let’s try not to judge. We don’t know what was going through his head.”

“I know exactly what was going through his head,” she cried. “Helping himself and himself only, because he’s a spoiled little brat, just like his mother, my sister, and he always has been. Of course I will judge him. When that bridge opens back up and I get my hands on him, he’s going to wish he was never born, that—”

“Well, it’s over now,” I interrupted in my most soothing voice. “And it all turned out okay. Your son’s guinea pigs are fine, okay? So let’s concentrate on that.”

“Mom,” I heard Sonny saying in the background, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she told him, in a calmer voice. “Everything’s fine. Your little piggies are fine. Bree saved them.”

“Bree? What about Sean?”

“Never mind about Sean. He—” There was another long pause while I overheard the mother and son discussing something animatedly in Russian. I heard the name Chett mentioned frequently.

Finally Lydia came back on the line with me. “Bree, I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you do us another favor? You’re the only person we’ve heard from who’s still on the island, with cell service being out.”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

“Chett, one of Sonny’s friends from the community college, evacuated as well, and left behind his bird. He thought he’d only be gone a day or so. But now, with the bridge out—”

“Of course,” I said. “I understand.”

I was lying. I didn’t understand how anyone could evacuate and leave their pets behind without someone to look after them.

But, like I’d told Lydia, I wasn’t there to judge.

Instead, I reached for a pen and a pad of paper that sat near the Hartwells’ landline. The pad said HOME in fancy cursive across the top.

“Give me Chett’s phone number, and I’ll get in touch with him about his bird.”

“Oh, you’re such an angel, Bree,” Lydia said, and gave me the information.

After I’d said good-bye and hung up, I looked at Gary. Displaced from his favorite seat, he regarded me resentfully from the Persian carpet.

“What have you got to be so upset about?” I asked. “You’re living in the lap of luxury. I’m the one with problems.”

Gary yawned, then turned his head to lazily lick a paw.

Sighing, I dialed Chett’s number. He answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Chett? This is Bree, Sonny’s frie—”

“I know who you are, ma’am.” Chett spoke with a Southern accent, his voice breathless and impossibly young. “Sonny already let me know that you’d be calling.”