A man living on a Florida barrier island must protect his family from both an approaching hurricane and a relentless killer. Jake Powell is racing to get off the island as a powerful hurricane approaches. When he finds his best friend Dallas, the building manager, dead from a blow to the skull, Jake realizes there’s more than the storm to fear. There’s a murderer on the island, maybe even still inside the nearly abandoned building. Dallas had repeatedly run afoul of the wealthy owners of the building by complaining about code violations and the precarious state of the condos. But he’d also once told Jake that every resident had a secret they’d come to Florida to escape. Had one of them killed to conceal their sins? As a dozen people shelter together in hopes of surviving the deadly hurricane, a second murder makes it all too clear: one of them is a dangerous killer. Praise for the novels of David Bell “A terrifically tense thriller...will keep you guessing until the very end.”— New York Times bestselling author Riley Sager “A tale straight out of the psychological thriller territory blazed by the likes of Harlan Coben and Lisa Gardner.”— The Providence Journal “[A] suspenseful, page-turning thriller.”—HelloGiggles “A tautly told, heart-pounding read...every character’s a suspect and no one can be trusted.”— New York Times bestselling author Mary Kubica “A compulsive, twisty, race-against-the-clock thriller...[a] smart and unrelenting page-turner!”— New York Times bestselling author Lisa Unger "David Bell. . .continues to pump out superior thrillers that always surprise." -- Book Reporter David Bell is a New York Times bestselling, award-winning author whose work has been translated into multiple languages. He’s currently a professor of English at Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green, Kentucky. One 5:14 p.m. Rain smacks my windshield. The wipers fight a losing battle. The Elantra's on its last legs, and there's so much water it's almost impossible to see the nearly one thousand feet of causeway ahead of me. Waves pound either side of this narrow link between the mainland and Ketchum Island, sending foamy water sloshing across two lanes of pavement. Constructed of dirt and boulders built up and reinforced over the years. Foot-high guardrails offer only a hint of protection to drivers. The water on the road isn't too deep. Yet. I left work early to beat the storm, but I'm barely going to make it back to the island. Even from here, I can see the scattered lights burning in my building. We still have power. For now. "Hang on a little longer." I'm talking to myself, and the words help calm my nerves. The wind whips the car, makes it wobble. The newscaster on the radio provides a grim update: Hurricane Kylie could soon be upgraded to a Category Three storm. It's bearing down on the east coast of the state and is expected to make landfall in the next few hours. "Slow down, Kylie," I say out loud. "Slow down." She was supposed to go up the Gulf side of the state, leave us alone. But Kylie has a mind of her own. She's already a bit of an outlier-a strong early-November storm, arriving when the season is supposed to be winding down. Now she's made a sudden right turn, cut across the bottom of Florida, and turned north. She's lashing the Atlantic coast, gathering strength, leaving me almost no time to pack and get out before she makes landfall. The car slams into a pothole, bounces across the pavement like it's a trampoline. "Shit." My teeth clap together so hard I wonder if I chipped one. But I keep driving, hands gripping the wheel so tight they hurt. The sky is almost pure black, the color of charcoal. It's only just past sunset, but there's no light at all. The sun's gone dark. It's a scene straight out of a postapocalyptic movie. A gust of wind shoves the car suddenly to the left. I lose control. The Elantra careens toward the guardrail. I fight as hard as I can, steering into the wind and righting course just before I'd go over the side of the causeway and plummet into the water below. "Shit." My heart pounds in my ears. The air-conditioning blasts, but I'm sweating like a pig. I reach the far side of the causeway. The island is a narrow spit of land. Fifty years earlier, a developer planted his flag, cleared the land, forcibly removed the alligators and deer, drained the swamp, and erected three large apartment buildings. Fifty years ago, this place was a dream. A paradise. Now . . . well . . . The apartment buildings on Ketchum Island have run their course, spent too many days withering in the relentless Florida sun and fighting the unforgiving winds of hurricane season. It's gotten so bad that all three buildings are scheduled to be demolished within six months. The palm trees bend one way and then another, nearly kissing the roadway. Garbage blows across the slick, sodden grass. I guide the car right, to the place where I've been living the past six months,