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Teresa Kozlowski. Try putting that up in lights. But when I turned thirty, I figured I’d made enough money, at least for a while. So I quit the stage. Now I’m just plain Treasure Kozlowski, computer whiz. Or I will be as soon as I finish my course at Edison Community College. What a riot, college classes. You been to college?”
    I nodded and smiled at the memory. “I met my husband in college. At BU.”
    “He sit next to you? I’ve got a cutie near me in Basic Comp. He can’t keep his eyes off me, but I don’t want to rob the cradle. I want a real man, you know, mature. Older than me and taller. Somebody like the new guy who’s moving in next door. I caught a glimpse of him when he came to look at the condo. He’s a hottie.”
    “I like older men, too. My husband turned forty-three last year.”
    “And you met him in college? ” Disbelief sent her throaty voice soaring.
    “He taught European history. With an Irish brogue that sounded like music. At least to me.” I forced down my tears. “I’ll never love anyone the way I loved Jack.”
    “Honey,” Treasure said, leaning across my coffee table to clutch my hand, her eyes brimming with sympathy, “never say never. You’re a beautiful girl with a whole life ahead of you.”
    “My life ended when Jack died.” I tried to flash a smile. “Besides, I’m not a girl, I’m thirty-two.”
    “That’s nothing. Love’s out there waiting for you.” With a defiant toss of her head, she’d flipped her tail of black hair over a shoulder. “For me, too.”
    Wrong. And strange that she’d never mentioned any men from the past… Maybe the types she’d met just weren’t keepers.
    Well, none of that mattered now.
    With a sigh, I put the mug on the lanai table and stood. After a sleepless night, I welcomed the spurt of energy the jolt of caffeine shot through me. I’d get in my daily two-mile run and try to block out Treasure’s brutal death, Neal’s bloody shirt—even Simon’s arms holding me tight.
    The lanai sliders next door opened, and I heard the murmur of voices. AudreyAnn and Chip again, but quieter today. I wondered what had caused their row yesterday, then told myself their personal life was none of my business.

    Suited up in running shorts and top, I stretched on a sweatband, double-knotted my Nikes, checked the door locks and headed for Moorings Beach. Though it wasn’t yet seven o’clock, humidity clogged the air. I’d be running in pea soup.
    I started out slow, pacing myself, letting my calves limber up. Before long, the familiar tempo set in and the demands of the jog took over. Hands fisted at chest level, elbows back, sweat trickling into the sweatband and between my shoulder blades, I picked up the pace, stretching those hamstrings, going for the gold.
    With muscles pumping full throttle and lungs gulping salt air, my body soon broke out of its vise and I hit my stride. I had the beach to myself. Only the shrill cries of gulls and the swish of low tide broke the silence.
    In no time, the sunshine-yellow Edgewater Beach Hotel loomed ahead on the left. As I passed it, lights beamed near the beachside pool and from a few of the windows. Some of the guests had to be early risers. But so far, there were no other signs of life. Most mornings I enjoyed playing Robinson Crusoe, but today the isolation made me uneasy, turning my skin clammy. Maybe the jog had been a mistake. No telling who might be peering from the hotel or crouching behind the sea grass ready to leap out and grab me by the throat.
    Phew. I slowed my pace, needing to catch more than my breath. My imagination was running faster than my feet. At the water’s edge, a flock of terns on little stick legs scampered before the low, lapping waves. In the distance, against the horizon, a white sail cut into the blue sky. It must be great out there on the water, your catamaran racing with the wind…all troubles left behind on the shore.
    In back of me, approaching fast, running shoes