SATISH
Halfway down the winding road from Hill View, Satish met an oncoming car flying instead of traveling on four wheels. The bastard’s high beams bounced off the fog. He twisted the Porsche’s steering wheel. After an eternity, his tires sank into damp dirt.
The curtain of mid-morning fog blocked his vision. He exhaled, swore, and sucked in oxygen. Careful. Careful. A drop-off yawned on his right. He braked, slowed, came to a standstill. A blur of silver shot past him.
“Bastard.” Satish twisted around, but the fog had already swallowed the taillights.
Poor visibility made a U-turn in the middle of the road suicidal. Seeing the make and model of the car that almost killed him and the driver was impossible. Satish opened his window and stuck his head out. No hum of tires in the fog-magnified hush. His heart stopped as he eased onto the pavement. Goddammit, he ought to go to the bottom of the hill, turn around, and return to the hospital parking lot. On the other hand, how many silver cars with warm engines would he find outside Hill View?
Maybe none. He smacked the steering wheel. Dammit, where was his brain?
A winery sat several hundred feet above the hospital. For some people, it was never too early and never too foggy to go wine tasting.
Why would Nicholas come to Hill View when he doesn’t know Alexandra’s here?
Because, Satish admitted grudgingly, I want Nicholas to own a red Audi. I want him as the murderer of six people. I want him to be the one tearing around in one of Daddy’s buggies and nearly killing me.
Even though he couldn’t—literally— see you?
“Even though,” Satish said out loud, feeling like a fool.
By the bottom of the hill, he added stupid and immature to fool. Someday he’d stop listening to his gut. Today was not that day. He headed for the Karpov estate.