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abandoned on one of the property’s two private beaches. At the end of the beach, we turned left and continued walking—uphill now—away from the water. The trail ended at the edge of a cliff and a campsite labeled “Suicide Bluff.” Obviously someone’s idea of a joke. A squirrel chirped angrily from above, as if warning us away from his favorite hiding place.
    I stood near the bluff’s jagged rock outcroppings, entranced by the view. Greenish-blue water extended for miles and birthed powerful waves that crashed over fifty feet below. The smooth, crescendoing sound was both calming and awe-inspiring at the same time. I moved closer to the edge, as if hypnotized.
    â€œKate, what are you doing? Get away from there.” Michael pointed to a sign several feet behind me.
    â€œDanger. Cliffs are unstable. Walking prohibited less than three feet from edge.”
    As if on cue, a rock broke free and clattered over the edge. I took several large steps back. “Suicide Bluff” suddenly felt more like a warning than a quip. The steep, dark cliffs dared me to come closer. Goaded me. Urged me to jump. An inexplicable chill frosted the back of my neck. I couldn’t explain it, but the cliffs felt malevolent—evil somehow. Like they hungered for human sacrifice.
    I looped Bella’s leash handle around my wrist and pulled her in closer. Gorgeous view or not, I wouldn’t come back here again. I didn’t trust this place.
    â€œMichael, let’s go.”
    The wary look on his face mirrored my own. He laced his fingers through mine and we hurried away, back toward our cozy little cabin, where the three of us would presumably be safe.

four
    I was wrong.
    Danger didn’t hibernate in dark, rocky cliffs; it napped in warm sun puddles. We almost made it back to our cabin. Another minute or two, and Michael, Bella, and I would have been safely ensconced inside our tiny-but-serviceable kitchen, snacking on leftover pastries. The only obstacle remaining was a multi-acre field dotted with newer-looking cabins.
    Each freshly stained structure was architecturally different—designed to look unique. A few were tiny studios, barely more than glorified bedrooms; others were multistoried mansions with wrap around decks and private hot tubs. Some towered over the land scape, offering unobstructed Puget Sound views; others hid, peeking from underneath old-growth Douglas fir trees.
    I meandered through the supposedly diverse development with a vague sense of unease—like an unsuspecting stranger visiting a Stepford Wives’ neighborhood. In spite of their superficial differences, each building’s energy felt exactly the same—and not quite genuine. Each cabin had been sided with uniformly stained cedar shingles and accented with container gardens of dark green flax grass and burnt-orange pansies. Each entry was shielded from mud tracks by recycled rubber mats in a variety of bright, primary colors. The entire area exuded a creepy, not-quite-real energy, feigning diversity while demanding conformity.
    No doubt about it, these supposedly upscale cabins paled in comparison with the dingy-but-cute place I now thought of as my own.
    Except one.
    I stopped and stared at the huge building in front of me—a two-story structure over three times the size of my Ballard home. “Michael, look at that place. Can you imagine the view? It looks right out over the ocean. Bella could lounge on the deck and—”
    I stopped midsentence.
    This was no good. No good at all.
    Bandit, the terrier we’d encountered at the beach near the ferry terminal, napped in a warm patch of sun near the edge of the deck, wearing no oppressive collar to impinge upon his comfort. He opened one sleepy, pirate-patched eye, looked at Bella, and launched.
    He dove off the deck, yapping at full volume, and flew down the stairs. His paws hit the grass, and he sprinted across the field toward Bella. His