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restaurant toward the dock, awed by the fireball spreading across the water. Molly clung to Ken Marshall, her gaze riveted on the water, haphazard bits of old, familiar prayers whirling through her head.
    “The Lord is my Shepherd …”
    “Our Father who art in heaven …”
    “Now I lay me down to sleep …”
    No one prayer was ever finished before the next took its place, as if her brain was trying to find the one prayer that could magically make this come out right.
    When she could finally tear her gaze away, she looked up into Ken Marshall’s brimming eyes, eyes that had no doubt seen their share of terrible scenes but nothing so horrifying as this. Domínguez was standing beside them, stone faced. Only his black-as-onyx eyes reflected the same kind of agony that churned inside Molly. She realized that in calling these two particular policemen earlier, Michael had not just called in favors, he had recruited friends. And these friends were every bit as shaken as she was.
    “You have to send somebody after him,” she pleaded. “He could be out there, hurt.”
    “It’s not safe, not yet,” Ken Marshall responded bluntly. “But we’ll find him, I promise you that. We’ve got paramedics and Coast Guard rescuers pouring in here.” His expression softened and his voice turned gentle and cajoling, the kind of voice people used on someone whose state of mind was rightly considered as fragile as spun glass. “Why don’t we go up to the restaurant and get you something to drink?”
    Molly shook her head. “I’m not leaving here, not until Michael is back.”
    She heard someone in the crowd offer to bring her coffee, and a moment later a warm cup was placed in her trembling hands. She automatically lifted it to her lips and took a sip of the strong black brew, though her eyes never left the water. Several people who’d apparently been drinking in the bar or having a late meal before going home climbed aboard their boats and turned high-beam searchlights onto the water to aid the rescuers.
    Molly had understood Ken Marshall’s blunt words. She knew it wouldn’t be safe until the last of the flames had burned themselves out, but with every second that passed, her terror mounted. Images passed through her mind, each one more horrifying than the one before. Michael could have been killed outright in the explosion. Or thrown clear of the boat, unconscious, only to drown. Or while plunging into the sea, he could have been coated with the boat’s fuel, then turned into a human torch.
    She moaned softly, tears coursing down her cheeks. There were so many things she’d never told Michael. She’d never admitted how much stronger she was, thanks to him. Nor how much he meant to her. Was it too late? In that one blinding instant had they been robbed of a future that had promised to be something incredibly special?
    “Will you be okay?” Marshall asked, hunkering down beside her as she huddled in the chair Raúl had left for her. “I want to join the search.”
    She glanced around. Domínguez had already gone, easing away without Molly’s even noticing. “Please, go,” she said. “Find him.”
    As she waited for some word, Molly was distantly aware of the arrival of sleepy overnight crews from some of the local television stations. Thankfully none of the reporters seemed to be aware of her or her connection to the bombing story. She couldn’t have formed a coherent thought for them right now.
    “Molly?”
    She glanced up into the worried face of Ted Ryan, a reporter from the morning paper. He’d been assigned to cover some of the same homicide cases that Molly had unofficially investigated. She’d been trying to save her own neck or that of a friend. Ted had provided a more objective eye. He was bright and ambitious, which meant he’d be dogging her with questions regardless of her fragile emotional state.
    “Not now,” she said in the slim hope it would send him on to more forthcoming sources.
    He slid his