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techs to move faster though she knew they were proceeding with all due speed, following protocol. Most important, they made a careful examination to be sure Emma hadn’t suffered a neck or back injury, then lightly applied a gauze bandage to the wound.
    Annie breathed a sigh of relief when Emma was strapped onto a gurney. Emma’s face, the portion not hidden by gauze, was waxy, the grayness of shock and blood loss. The EMTs, ebullient Josie Winters, who had a complete collection of Elizabeth Peters’s Amelia Peabody series, and burly Jack Kramer, who had once played shortstop with the Savannah Sand Gnats, eased their burden down the steps. As the ambulance pulled away, siren wailing, a police cruiser turned into Nightingale Courts.
    Annie looked at the thin woman. Annie didn’t know her name, but there wasn’t time now for introductions. “I’ve got to go to the emergency room. I’ll straighten the cabin when I get back.” Or maybe she could catch Max, ask him to take over at Nightingale Courts and finish the cleaning. She’d grab her purse from the office and head for the hospital. Annie pushed through the door, then stopped on the porch.
    Police Chief Billy Cameron walked toward Cabin Six. Billy was six-feet-plus inches of brawn and character. His short blond hair had glints of silver though he was still in his thirties. His eyes held a sober, questing look. Billy was the island’s watchdog. He’d grown up on Broward’s Rock, and he took the safety of each and every citizen very seriously indeed. Billy was here because she’d called 911 and not stayed on the line.
    He came up the steps. His probing gaze chided her as she stepped back for him to enter. “Mavis didn’t get all the information. What happened to Emma? What are you doing here? Where’s Ingrid?”
    She hadn’t reported a crime, but Billy knew his island. Famed island mystery author Emma Clyde lived in a multimillion-dollar beach mansion. Her discovery, unconscious from a head injury in a motel cabin, required explanation.
    â€œIngrid’s gone to Florida on a family emergency and I’m handling everything. I don’t know how Emma got hurt. I didn’t find her. The guest who rents the cabin found her”—Annie looked at her watch—“about twenty minutes ago.” It felt as though hours had passed.
    Billy looked puzzled. “She found Emma in her cabin? How did Emma get in?”
    Before Annie could reply, the young woman joined her on the porch and answered. “I guess she used her passkey since she was bringing towels.” She stood aside to point into the cabin. “See, they’re on the floor.”
    Billy looked at the woman, not the towels.
    There was a moment of silence.
    She drew herself up, her narrow face rigid.
    â€œHello, Iris.” Billy rocked back on his heels. His gaze was cool. “Your grandmother reported you missing.”
    A pulse fluttered in her thin throat. She didn’t speak.
    â€œShe spent all her money looking for you.” His tone wasn’t accusing, more grave and sad. “She loved you.”
    Tears glistened in the woman’s deep-sunk dark eyes.
    Annie felt as if she watched an injured bird, desperate to take flight, unable to move, frozen in pain.
    Billy shifted his weight forward. “You didn’t come to her funeral.”
    â€œI couldn’t. I was…sick.” Tears spilled unchecked. Iris slipped bony fingers together, laced them so tight the skin blanched. “Were you there?”
    He nodded. “She was a good woman. Everyone came.”
    Tears trickled down her thin cheeks. “Did they play ‘In the Garden’?”
    Billy’s voice softened. “Yes.”
    â€œThat was her favorite. I sing it now. I hold to it.” She lifted her chin. “I would have come if I could have. I’m sorry about everything, especially running away. That’s why