Sanctuary

sweep in case there were any lingering. Her only news of Nathan was that he was helping board up cottages along the beachfront.
    Except for the monotonous thwack of hammers, the house was finally quiet. She imagined Kate would be back shortly with the last of the cottagers. The windows on the south and east sides were boarded, casting the house into gloom.
    When she opened the front door, the wind rushed in. The cool slap of it was a shock after the thick heat of the closed house. To the south, the sky was bruised and dark. She saw the flicker of lightning but heard no answering thunder.
    Still far enough away, she decided. She would check shortly and see what track they were predicting Carla to take. And as a precaution, she would get all of her prints and negatives out of her darkroom and into the safe in Kate’s office.
    Because she wanted to avoid her father for a while yet, she took the main stairs, checking rooms automatically to see that nothing had been left behind by a harried guest. She flicked off lights, moving briskly toward the family wing. The sound of hammering was louder now, and she found it comforting. Tucking us in, she thought. If Carla lashed out at Sanctuary, it would hold, as it had held before.
    She caught the sound of voices as she went by Kate’s office. Plywood slipped over the window, blanking it as she passed. Either Brian was back or her father had gone out to help Giff, she decided.
    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