Prologue

Kyle Parker walked down the side street, then turned up a narrow lane that could easily be mistaken for an alley. Dusk was falling, casting long, dark shadows, and with it a tropical breeze rustled the palm trees, carrying the loamy yet fragrant scent unique to the island. On the cat’s paw of wind, reggae music drifted over the treetops from the heart of Old Town, a signal that the nightly revelry had already begun.

He walked by the last house before Thunder Island. The pedestrian lane became a ribbon choked with nettles and weeds. He bent his head to dodge a tree branch growing out over the foot path.

“The jungle’s taken over,” he muttered to himself.

What did he expect? Over a year and a half had passed, a lifetime in the tropics where the rain and the sun made everything grow. The ferns, always a nuisance, had claimed the land, growing thick and tall, climbing through the trees to block his view of the sky.

Squinting to adjust to the stealthy shadows, Kyle trudged up what was left of the path. He came upon the sign unexpectedly. Like the white picket fence, the plaque hanging from the post was nearly covered by the tenacious wild vines.

THUNDER ISLAND GUEST HOUSE

NO VACANCY

“That’s a crock,” Kyle said to himself.

The whole damn place was abandoned.

No lights or laughter came from the house that sprawled over an acre of what had been manicured gardens. The once majestic lattice shutters gaped forlorn. On the verandah surrounding the house, the swing was nearly hidden by vines, but there was enough of a breeze for its rusty chain to creak eerily.

He could almost see himself sitting in the swing, Jennifer at his side, her blue eyes full of mischief.

Almost.

He could almost hear Thelma Mae, owner of Thunder Island, ringing the bell to call the guests to dinner.

Almost.

He could almost feel his bed on the second floor move as Jenny snuggled closer to him as she slept.

Almost.

“Dusk plays tricks,” he reminded himself.

Even an ace with a gun, like himself, couldn’t count on a bull’s-eye in the deceptive light. With his next breath, he admitted the truth. It wasn’t the light playing hell with his vision.

It was his mind.

Reality was the yellow crime-scene tape that even nature hadn’t completely hidden. Like a hangman’s noose, it encircled Thunder Island, screaming: MURDER!

He snapped the now-brittle tape and pried the nettles from the picket gate, pulling off what was left of the white paint. The rusty hinges groaned as it swung open, and he walked into the yard.

The expansive lawn encircling the house had succumbed to the jungle’s rule. Ivy had invaded the grass, and along with weeds and nettles, it had choked out the plush lawn. Orchids, once so carefully tended by Thelma Mae, grew wild along the sides of the building. Here and there, the orchids had climbed through the open windows into the house itself.

He craned his neck to see around to the back. The sea oats and other native grasses separating the sloping terrace at the rear of the guest house from the shore had gone wild again, growing waist high. Now it was impossible to see the sand where he’d relaxed, his arm around Jenny, watching the waves tumble onto the shore.

Thunder Island, always a mysterious place, was a ghost now. A proud building that haphazardly rambled across the property, its halls like a maze, Thunder Island had been a place with secrets—from the beginning.

Barbed nettles and weeds clawed at Kyle’s bare legs as he walked to the side of the house where Jenny’s room had been. Something in his chest caught and he had to remind himself that Jenny wasn’t there anymore.

If only he could turn back the hands of time he could have prevented the cold-blooded killing that led to Jenny being accused of murder.

For a moment, he indulged himself. Standing in the dark shadows, he closed his eyes and remembered the night when the trouble began.