Don't Go Home by Carolyn Hart

Marian to Louanne. In the novel, Louanne was a round-faced blonde. Louanne wasn’t a reporter, she was a copywriter in an advertising agency in Atlanta, a long, long way from the island. Annie wouldn’t have made the connection if she hadn’t overheard the exchange between Marian and Alex.
    It was almost as if Max were there beside her.
Be her friend. Be there for her. That’s how you help Marian. Leave murder to Billy.
    Slowly she began to relax. Whatever happened, she was out of it. She had promised. She sent a little message across the forest and out onto the ocean to Max. Was he on deck watching the stars? Drinking a beer? Laughing? He would be pleased at how she’d handled everything tonight. She’d kept free of all entanglements—
    A siren shrilled.
    Her hand tightened on the cool glass.
    The siren came nearer and nearer. She gauged its progress, knew when it—patrol car? ambulance? fire truck?—turned into the broad avenue that led to the Seaside Inn. The shrill wail cut off. In the distance sounded another siren, again coming nearer and nearer. Two sirens. Not more, not the cacophony of cars converging as they had in the early evening. Still, something had happened and she was sure the sirens led to the Seaside Inn.
    Annie came to her feet, moved across the porch, stared across the darkness of the garden. A golden glow from the lamppost near the gazebo illuminated the path that curved into the woods, the path to the inn.
    Maybe someone had a heart attack. Not that she wished illness on anyone, but help would come. That would be a single siren. Didn’t two sirens spell police?
    She knew what she feared in a dark recess of her mind. Was Alex Griffith’s murderer afraid of how much Rae knew? But Joan Turner had invited Rae to come to the Turner home, leave the physical surroundings where Alex died. Even if Rae had declined the offer, surely she had relocated to another room in the inn. Annie had a swift memory of Rae huddled in the webbed chair on the patio just the other side of the cracked glass door and the room where her husband lay twisted in death.
    Rae had huddled alone. All alone. No one to care. No one to help.
    It was far too late at night to call the Turner house, ask if Rae was there. Annie whirled and hurried across the porch, flinging open the door, running with her slippers slapping softly on the wooden floor, taking the stairs two at a time. It took only a couple of minutes to step out of her nightie, put on a cotton top and slacks, tug on running shoes.
    She raced down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she grabbed a flashlight. Outside, she crossed the yard and reached the path. Whenshe plunged into the woods, the canopy of trees closed overhead, blocking out the stars and the glow of the moon. The flashlight beam offered a reassuring tunnel of light in the pitch darkness. Ferns and vines poked into her path. Movement and rustles in dense thickets brought the hair up on the back of her neck. She knew what was out there—raccoons, deer, rats, porcupines, foxes—but surely they would stay out of her way. As she ran, she murmured in almost a conversational tone, “Max, I’m not being stupid. I’m going to be careful. I just don’t want Rae to be alone, if she’s there. She may not be there, so then I can come home and all is well, and I promise I am not getting involved in anything.” She slowed and peered at the farthest reach of the light. Worse than upsetting Max would be coming nose to snout with an alligator lounging on the path. If she saw a long dark blotch across the trail, she would skid to a terrified stop, inch her way back. But the path was the quickest way to the inn. Her heart was thudding by the time she plunged out of the woods into the west parking lot. Immediately she felt better. She’d sent ESP vibes to Max and she hadn’t confronted an alligator. She crossed the terrace, the untenanted swimming pool