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for Turkey, he had e-mailed her with his pitch, assuring her that his client was willing to pay above market price for a chance to own property there. The neighbors in the area had told him they hadn’t seen anyone around her place for quite some time, and if she had no real use for it, why not bid it adieu and collect a hefty payoff?
    She thought he was being a bit presumptuous at first, but after letting the idea percolate, she decided he was right. Sometimes it was better to move on.
    Looking out at the bay again, she saw the boats bobbing in Gilbert’s Marina. The phone kept screaming at her to pick it up, so she pulled it from its cradle and put it to her ear.  
    “Hey, Thomas. Sorry I’m late. I stopped at a fruit stand along the way.”
    The fruit stand was a place called Robert Is Here, and sold the best strawberry key lime milkshake Alex had ever had. It had always been a scheduled stop when she was traveling with the family, so she’d made sure to include it this time, too.
    “Not to worry,” Gérard said in a voice that held the tiniest hint of a French accent. “I’m calling to apologize myself. I have to speak to one of my clients before I leave the hotel. I hope this isn’t a problem?”
    “No problem at all. It’ll give me a chance to open up the house and air it out a little.”
    She had no idea what that might entail. The management company had always prepared the place for hurricane season and had probably left it that way when the business folded. Two-plus years of summer heat and humidity were bound to have done a job on the house.
    “Excellent,” Gérard said. “I’ll see you soon.”

    Ten minutes later, Alex pulled onto the drive that led to the Shimmy Shack, and heard the familiar crunch of crushed shells beneath her tires. Like everywhere else in the Keys, there was no real landscaping at the house, more of a controlled, natural growth, featuring a jungle of palms and multicolored bougainvillea trees.  
    The house itself was a yellow box that stood on cement stilts several feet from the shore. And as Alex had suspected, large sheets of now graying and dilapidated plywood covered the windows and front door, to protect the place from seasonal hurricanes.  
    The house had been built by her grandfather in the late sixties, and no one had ever bothered to install proper storm shutters. Grandpa Eddie had always said a solid sheet of plywood was good enough for him, and apparently the management company had agreed.
    Alex pulled into the carport and cut her engine. She’d have to pry the wood from the door to get inside, but she hadn’t thought to bring any tools—a boneheaded move if there ever was one. Hopefully, the kit her father had always kept on the premises was still here.
    She climbed out of the rental and made her way to the storage shed built into the right wall of the carport, then found the key on her key ring and unlatched the padlock.
    The enclosure was nearly as deep as the house was wide, and was full of over forty-five years’ worth of junk. Moldering cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly, flaps hanging open, still bearing the signs of Alex’s and Danny’s childhood rummaging.  
    Even the old turntable was there.  
    No sign of “Shimmy, Shimmy, Ko-Ko-Bop,”however.
    Alex stepped over to a workbench on the left, cleared away a couple boxes, and was relieved to find her father’s battered gray toolbox sitting atop it. She carried it around to the front of the house, took the steps up to the front door, and went to work.
    Five minutes and several rusty nails later, she set the slab of plywood aside, unlocked the door and…
    Something stopped her as she was about to push it open.  
    A gut feeling. A sense that something was out of place.
    Having learned long ago to pay attention to her senses, Alex took a step back and looked at the windows to the left and right. The graying plywood covering them was peeling in spots and otherwise looked the same as the board