In the business they called it a “safe house”. Not that anyone who ever stayed there really felt safe, but what else could it be called? Certainly not the “unprotected house” or the “sitting duck house”. The dwelling existed for the purpose of granting refuge to various people who might find themselves in need of a secure place to stay. The beach house looked ordinary enough, situated on sandy, warm beach front area that was considered home to only a few permanent year-round residents. Every year, countless tourists arrived as early as March and stayed as late as September, but the residents of Beach Haven House needed no money or credit cards. They were guaranteed complete and total anonymity. The temporary inhabitants ran the gamut from secret agents to spies. Some were witnesses to crimes and planned to testify for the prosecution. Today it was a sanctuary to a US Federal agent who had been working undercover. For the first time in her well and truly storied career, she was worried.

Martha and Steve Johnson managed the accommodations at the safe house. Their white heads and lined faces provided the perfect cover. Anyone inquisitive enough to actually inquire about the caretakers of the classic frame beach house would learn they both came from large families with a plethora of nieces, nephews, and cousins who were always looking for a place to stay at the beach.

The current “great-niece” staying with them knew the residence was considered one of the safest hiding places in the United States, but hiding wasn’t her style. She’d much prefer to be out in the field gathering the evidence that would bring down the people who wanted her dead. And right now, with her hosts out shopping, she was alone in the rambling three-story abode. The solitude notched up her restlessness.

“How can anyone possibly think a place with this many windows safe?” she muttered to herself as she gazed out from behind crisp, fluttering white curtains. Standing in the third-floor bedroom, her gun safely holstered behind her back, she studied the beach. Late October was definitely the off-season; an aspect her bosses assured her would be helpful. But it was still a beautiful beach, and people could be found walking on it nearly all hours of the day. A fit, shirtless man wearing red jogging shorts caught her attention, and she shot a quick glance at her watch. “10:00 a.m. on a Tuesday,” she muttered. “Why isn’t Mr. Spankybuns at work like most men his age?” Years of observation allowed her to tick off the white ear phones, the expensive iPod, the name brand and pricey running shoes. Anyone who can afford that gear has to work somewhere, she deduced. Her eyes followed him until he was out of sight. She sighed and stepped away from the window. Looking around, she confirmed the room was in order. Bed made – check. Gear stowed and ready to go – check. Room wiped for fingerprints – check. She nodded and left the room, deciding to explore the house in the light of day.

Trixie descended the stairs on her way to the kitchen and stopped short. No one had mentioned a dog to her the night before when she arrived. He sat quietly on the landing, looking at her. He made no movement, but it seemed as if he was studying her as closely as she'd studied the jogger on the beach. She had the oddest feeling he was sizing her up. Certainly there was some beagle mixed in with whatever other breeds constituted the canine’s genetic make-up. Probably some terrier, she decided upon closer study, noting as she descended the steps that the pooch didn't move. She knelt down when she reached the landing and gave him a scratch. He sniffed her hand and then leaned in, clearly enjoying the attention. Smiling, she enjoyed the moment and fleetingly wondered if it was out of the question to take the dog with her for a run along the beach. As she stood her eyes caught the artful display of pictures on the wall. Each was a framed photograph of a person or group of people, but her eyes were drawn to one image in particular. She took a deep breath and blinked several times. Stepping closer for a better look, she felt her heart rate speed up instantly. It wasn’t possible. She swallowed and looked down at the dog and then back to the picture. Her eyes moved taking in each and every detail. It wasn’t possible – but unless she was sleep-walking or dreaming it seemed that it was entirely possible. The red-head photographed with a dog was unmistakably James Winthrop Frayne II. She looked down at the dog beside her and back at the picture. “Is that you?” she asked the mutt. Realizing she was talking to a dog, she took a deep breath and shook her head. But there was no mistaking the picture

The dog gave a small whine and then nudged her leg, as if trying to tell her something. She closed her eyes, counted to ten and swallowed. Opening them, she looked once again at the wall of pictures and the realization washed over her. There was a snapshot of Diana with Honey, and another of Dan, photos of Beldens, Wheelers and Lynches. The montage included many friends from Sleepyside: Miss Trask, Bill Regan, Mr. Lytell, and Mr. Maypenny decorated the wall. It seemed as if everyone she knew was pictured on the wall – with two exceptions. One, of course, was none other than herself. That left one other person missing, and with that piece of the puzzle solved, Trixie knew exactly who was responsible for her current situation. Her training kicked in and she knew that her so-called protectors would not be returning from the market alone. Taking the steps two at a time, she grabbed her backpack from her room and hurried back down the stairs where she discovered the dog was still waiting. She checked the window and breathed a sigh of relief that there was no sign of the jogger. Heaving the backpack over one shoulder, she spoke to the dog. “You coming or staying?” she asked. She wasn’t surprised when he followed her down the steps. Stopping in the foyer, she listened intently for a moment until satisfied she was alone. Deciding against the front door, she cautiously exited the house through the kitchen. Her sandals slapped noisily on the wooden porch and she managed to casually slip on her sunglasses as if headed for the beach. She pulled a nondescript baseball cap over her sandy curls while scanning the beach for anyone who might be watching the house. With the dog on her heels, she found an alley that led away from the beach and into the community of colorful rental houses.

It was time to stop running and face what she already suspected. It was time to return to Sleepyside and confront the enemy.