Faster than I have ever moved without the assistance of an engine, Margaret pulls me through the Palma D'Oro parking garage, down Harbor Blvd, to a suspension bridge that is closed so a sailboat can pass into the channel. She drags me up the bridge and says, "Well, at least jumping over it won't kill us."

We cross over to Davis Island, and I finally have the opportunity to speak. "What's going on with Lanie?"

Margaret continues forward at full speed, pulling me behind. "Remember how I told you that I wanted to follow up on something I'd seen in the Tibauld safety deposit box?"

I thought it was weird that she wouldn't just say what she saw, but it's also typical Margaret. She's got to play up the drama every opportunity she gets. I eke out a yes as we vault over a ten-foot-tall wooden fence.

The view beyond the fence is amazing. Oaks, palms and cypress trees dot the landscaping, along with a flower garden that rivals the courtyard by Plant Hall. Someone has spent a fortune on this place. It is fit for a Bertwinkle.

"Is this your dad's place?"

She gives a look of incredulity. "I'm from the Bayshore Boulevard Bertwinkles, pretty sure Bayshore Boulevard is not on Davis Island."

As if her dad doesn't have multiple properties here in Tampa. Jeesh. "It's just that this place must have cost a fortune. Other than oil tycoons, casino moguls, and Bill Gates, your dad is the only one I can think of who could possibly afford this property."

She rolls her eyes. "Then you don't know enough rich."

Clearly.

We approach the mansion, its stucco exterior influenced by Florida's Spanish history. The house is mostly dark, only a few lights on in what appears to be the centralized living quarters.

Margaret leads me through the door and into the foyer. The floor is white marble and the furniture is antique. A Christmas tree, taller than any I've seen inside a house, blocks a bay window on the opposite side. The scent of beef cooking in red wine wafts through the air. We move forward and I linger outside the kitchen, trying to savor the smell.

Margaret turns around. "Are you coming?"

"Who lives here?"

Margaret sighs. She's losing patience with me. "That's what I tried to tell you. There's this guy I met a few times at Channelside." She leaps through the Christmas tree.

I opt for the wall.

The view from this side of the mansion is even more breathtaking than the entrance. The pool area is tiled with ceramic. It has a hot tub, barbecue pit, an outdoor kitchen, and a gazebo with patio furniture. Adirondack chairs line the tiered pool.

"Stop gawking," Margaret orders. She heads to the pool house. "Anyway, this guy seemed really nice, almost too good to be true. I thought he was helping me. But I'm certain he's behind all this, and he has Lanie."

I try to make sense of what she's saying, but I have no idea who she is talking about, who could be so rich to afford a place like this, who could lure Lanie here under possibly false pretenses.

We pass through an eat-in kitchen that is larger than my apartment and ascend a narrow staircase. The door at the end of the hallway thuds like weight is being thrown against it, and its handle jostles frantically.

We cross through it. Lanie is on the other side, screaming, "Let me out, Weston!"

Weston? I must have said it aloud because Margaret nods and says, "Weston Tibauld."

"I've never seen him. Don't get me wrong, I've heard a lot about him, but she never introduced us."

"I have met him. He asked me out a couple of times, even came over to my apartment a few nights ago. Nice guy, I thought."

I had kept pretty close tabs on Margaret before she died, or at least I thought I had. Yet she still managed to be murdered.

Lanie throws herself against the door again. Wincing, she walks past a queen bed and grabs a mystery from an oaken bookcase. The overstuffed cushion of the loveseat sinks as she sits, staring at the book, her eyes tearing up.

The lock disengages and Tony walks inside. A Hermes bag is in his hands.

I stare in disbelief as everything adds up. How many times had I seen him on the phone, seemingly frustrated by the person on the other end? And Oliver...hadn't he mentioned that he thought Tony went by another name? And Lanie, she'd seen him at the mall. He'd known about the scarf.

How stupid was I not to realize something was off with him?

He interrupts my momentary What-the-hell-just-happened. "I brought you an early Christmas present, love. I bought a few days ago, but wasn't sure I'd ever get to give it to you." He drops the bag onto Lanie's lap. She looks away, opting for the view of the bay's whitecapped waves.

"Why haven't you changed?"

Lanie's attention flicks to the closet. It is empty, save for a gold, sequined dress.

"It's a Badgley Mischka!" Margaret exclaims. "Cowl back...it's freaking gorgeous!"

I shoot her a dirty look. "I'm sure she has her reasons for not wanting the dress." Why would she want to indulge a psycho?

Tony walks over to the closet, grabs the dress, and throws it at Lanie. "Put it on."

Lanie stares at him incredulously. "Can I have some privacy?"

"You're kidding, right? That's what the last twenty minutes were supposed to be, if you recall." He folds his arms to his chest. "Put it on or I will put it on for you and I can't guarantee you'll like the way I touch you."

She turns her back to him. He does not take his eyes off her as she disrobes and he seems to savor the brief moment that she is down to her underwear.

"Take your bra off, too," he orders.

Back still to him, she slides the straps from her shoulder, lifts the dress over her head, and removes the bra, before the dress cascades down her body. She folds her arms to cover the plunging neckline and returns to the sofa, curling her feet under the too-long hem.

"Aren't you going to open your gift?" He points at the Hermes bag, lying on its side next to her. When she does not answer, he grabs the bag from her lap and smacks it against her face. Lanie's eyes widen and she bristles at the assault.

"Now that I have your attention, open the damn bag," he says, thrusting it onto her lap again.

Margaret and I look at each other. I say, "He's only getting started, isn't he?"

Margaret nods. "He's trouble in the worst sort of way. Adam is bad news, but we all know it. This guy plots, plans, and then destroys."

Lanie removes the tissue-wrapped gift from the bag. With her fingernail, she pries off the sticker seal. The tissue falls away to reveal a sapphire silk scarf, one that any of us women in the room would be thrilled to receive under ordinary circumstances. She thanks him then returns the scarf to the bag.

"You're welcome. It will be lovely on you at dinner, which is waiting for you downstairs...Stuffed tenderloin. I always wanted you to sample my cooking." He holds out his arm, as though he honestly expects she'll grab it. Idiot. "So glad we finally have the chance, albeit not under the most favorable of circumstances."

"I'm not hungry," she says. "Let me go home."

"Not a chance. Your boyfriend owes me some money, and he has about an hour to pay up. I've been trying to reach him all day."

"Well, he doesn't have access to his phone right now. I kinda saw to that when I left. You know, right before I called you?"

He shakes his head. "I don't believe you. Adam should know by now that I'm not playing games. Surely he's noticed that dead people keep popping up all around him."

Lanie's face whitens to the point she could pass as a vampire. "You killed Margaret?"

Margaret and I inch toward him.

"I enjoyed that one. She was an obnoxious bitch. Your friend, she was far too easy. Drunk, hysterical, and staring out the window. It was an easy push, but I messed up with her. It was supposed to be you. The kicker: Harold Bertwinkle has a bounty on your head." He laughs. "I'm going to collect his million dollars and laugh all the way to South America."

Margaret floats over to him. "My dad will find out and he will have you begging for the torture to end. But it won't, not until he's good and ready." She gives her cute giggle and it chills me. I don't think she's exaggerating in the least.

Lanie shudders and her hands ball into fists. She jumps to her feet and starts pummeling him, but he quickly gains control of her.

He twists her arms behind her back. With one hand holding her arms together, he reaches for the scarf and drapes it over his shoulder. "Walk." He pushes her forward.

At the stairs, Lanie slows. Tony gives her another push.

"I'm going to fall," Lanie says. She leans on the banister to her right.

"Only if you stop moving again."

She forces her chin up as she slowly descends the steps. He guides her to the formal dining room. Four covered platters are situated on Christmas tree-embroidered placemats at the head and foot of the table. The table has been set for five courses. The flames from five candles surrounded by greenery and ornaments provide most of the lighting in the room. If I hadn't heard Tony's threats and witnessed his mistreatment of Lanie upstairs, I would have assumed that this setting was a romantic Christmas Eve dinner for two.

"Don't try anything funny." Tony releases one of Lanie's arms and slides the chair outward. "Sit."

She cringes at the command, as if she's nothing more than a dog, but complies. Her eyes fill with hatred. I cannot tell if it is for her beloved Weston or for herself, who so easily fell into this trap.

"Lift your arms." As she does, he wraps the scarf around her neck and the back of the chair, and then weaves it between the legs of the chair. He ties and double knots it so her hands are free, but her legs are constrained. She cannot slide the scarf to untie it, nor can she stand from the chair. "I knew that scarf would look beautiful on you."

"This guy's a nutjob," I say to Margaret. "He seemed so nice every time I saw him with you."

"I know, right?" She sticks a foot out to buckle his knee as he steps backward. Of course, it does nothing but make him pause for a millisecond, if that.

He scoots Lanie and the chair toward the table. The sound of the chair's cherry wood grating against the hardwood floor is loud and jarring. With a lift of one of the platter's lids, he sets a steaming bowl of French onion soup in front of Lanie. Croutons jut from the smothering of Swiss cheese broiled on top, and it smells delicious.

He takes his seat at the opposite end. "Aren't you going to eat?"

"I told you I wasn't hungry." She casts her attention downward.

He slams his hands on the table. His glass of merlot topples over, shattering upon impact. Red-faced, he grabs the large pieces of glass and storms off.

Lanie uses the opportunity to tug at the scarf, but it is too tight.

Tony returns with a towel and wipes the mess from the table and floor. He takes a deep breath as Lanie sinks back into the chair. Crossing to her side of the table, he traces her cheekbone. "I'm going to toss this in the washer. When I get back, you will eat or I'll pour the soup down your throat. Have I made myself clear?"

Lanie's nod is slight. She exhales deeply once he leaves the room and begins her struggle to loosen the scarf again.

"Save your energy, hun," I whisper in her ear.

She stops struggling, opting instead to hide a butter knife under her leg. The steak knife would be better, but it's also the one Tony would notice immediately.

Clever girl. I can only hope she pokes his eyes out with it. Otherwise, she's in for a world of hurt.

I turn to Margaret. "I have to get help for her."

"What are you going to do? It's not like you can go to the cops. I tried like crazy to put the moves on Officer Smith. Didn't even garner a shudder from him." She strokes Lanie's arm like she's trying to soothe her.

"I have my sources, but I need your help until I can come back."

She sighs. "What do you need?"

"I need probably twenty minutes. Do whatever it takes to keep her alive. She has only one hit with that knife. If she misses or doesn't disable him completely, he's going to lose it."

"But how am I supposed to do that? They're like jelly to me."

"I've noticed that they'll usually react if we touch them. It isn't always noticeable, but if you can keep needling him, I'll bet you'll have an effect, even if it's only to scare the bejeezus out of him. Twenty minutes, that's all I need."

"I can do that." She looks at Lanie. "I owe her that much."

With a quick prayer that John is home and that Lanie will be okay, I will myself to the seventh floor of Palma D'Oro.

Oliver and Jose are seated in the hallway against the wall opposite John's apartment. Jose pings a quarter against John's door.

"Why the glum face, Cheline?" Oliver asks.

"He's not here, is he?"

"No, senorita. We've been waiting for a while." Jose retrieves the coin and pings it again.

As the words register, I can feel whatever life is in me slip through my existence. I have completely failed Lanie.

_____________________________________

Author's Note: Wow! So we have our killer! I'm hoping that the reveal was worth the forty (!!!) chapters it took to get here. Just a few more chapters to see how this turns out. I have a feeling not everyone is going to survive. Thanks again for still being here!