She snapped on the lights in her darkroom, then turned on the radio.
“Hurricane Carla has been upgraded to category three and is expected to make landfall on the barrier island of Little Desire off the coast of Georgia by seven P.M. Tourists have been evacuated from this privately owned island in the Sea Islands chain, and residents are being advised to leave as soon as possible. Winds of up to one hundred and twenty miles an hour are expected, with the leading edge striking the narrow island near high tide.”
Her earlier confidence shaken, Jo dragged her hands through her hair. It didn’t get much worse than this, she knew. Cottages would be lost, by wind or water. Homes flattened, the beach battered, the forest ripped to pieces.
And their safety net was shrinking, she thought, with a glance at her watch. She was going to get Nathan, and Kirby, and if she had to knock her father unconscious, she was going to get him and her family off the island.
She yanked open a drawer. She could leave the prints, but damned if she’d risk losing all her negatives. But as she started to reach for them, her hand froze.
On top of her neatly organized files was a stack of prints. Her head went light, her skin clammy as she stared down into her mother’s face. She’d seen this print before, in another darkroom, in what almost seemed like another life. Over the roaring in her head, she could hear her own low moan as she reached out for it.
It was real. She could feel the slick edge of the print between her fingers. Breathing shallowly, she turned it over, read the carefully written title.
DEATH OF AN ANGEL
She bit back a whimper and forced herself to look at the next print. Grief swarmed over her, stinging like wasps. The pose was nearly identical, as though the photographer had sought to reproduce one from the other. But this was Ginny, her lively, friendly face dull and lax, her eyes empty.
“I’m sorry,” Jo whispered, pressing the print to her heart. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The third print was certainly Susan Peters.
Jo shut her eyes, willed the sickness away, and gently set the third print aside. And her knees went to water.
The last print was of herself. Her eyes were serenely closed, her body pale and naked. Sounds strangled in her throat as she dropped the photo, backed away from it.
She groped behind her for the door, the adrenaline pumping through her, priming her to run. She backed sharply into the table, knocked the radio onto its side. Music jangled out, making her want to scream.
“No.” She fisted her hands, digging her nails into her palms until the pain cut through the shock. “I’m not going to let it happen. I’m not going to believe it. I won’t let it be true.”
She rocked herself, counting breaths until the faintness passed, then grim and determined, she picked up the photo again.
Her face, yes. It was her face. Taken before Lexy had cut her hair for the bonfire. Several weeks, then. The bonfire had been at the very start of summer. She carried the photo closer to the light, ordered herself to study it with an objective and trained eye.
It took her only seconds of clear vision to realize that while the face was hers, the body wasn’t. The breasts were too full, the hips too round. She set the photo of Annabelle beside it. Was it more horrifying, she wondered dully, to realize her face had been imposed on her mother’s body? Making them one, she thought.
That’s what he’d wanted all along.
***
BRIAN steered the Jeep down the maintenance road of the campground. Several of the sites had been left in disarray. With the way the storm was rolling in, he figured that wasn’t going to matter much. The wind was already ripping like razors through the trees. A gust shook the Jeep around him, had him gripping the wheel tighter. He calculated they had perhaps an hour to finish preparations.
He had to fight not to hurry this check run. He wanted to get to Kirby, lock her safely inside Sanctuary. He’d have preferred shipping her off to the mainland, but knew better than to waste his breath or his energy arguing with her. If one resident stayed put to ride it out, she would stay put to treat any injuries.
Sanctuary had stood for more than a hundred years, Brian thought. It would stand through this.
There were dozens of other worries. They would undoubtedly be cut off from the mainland. The radio would help, but there would be no phone, no power, and no transportation once they were hit. He’d fueled the generator to provide emergency power, and he knew Kate kept an ample supply of bottled water.
They had food, they had shelter, they had several strong backs. And after Carla did her worst, strong backs were going to be a necessity.
He continued to tick off tasks and options in his mind, growing calmer as he assured himself there were no stragglers in the camping areas. He only hoped there weren’t any idiots hiding out in the trees, or staking in near the beach, thinking a hurricane was a vacation adventure.
He cursed and stomped on the brakes as a figure stepped out on the road in front of the Jeep.
“Jesus Christ, you idiot.” Disgusted, Brian slammed out of the vehicle. “I damn near ran you over. Haven’t you got the sense to stay out of the middle of the road, much less the path of an oncoming hurricane?”
“I heard about that.” His grin spread wide. “Amazing timing.”
“Yeah, amazing.” Resenting every second wasted, Brian jerked a thumb at the Jeep. “Get in, I might be able to get you down for the last ferry, but there isn’t much time.”
