Jeannette Stewart tossed and turned, trying to sleep, trying to blot out the memory of Dorothea’s smug, red face sneering at her over the dinner table. Damn Halle for making such a scene over those stupid turtles. Damn Cordelia for allowing Dorothea to humiliate her in that sneering sympathetic tone of voice.   Damn Steven for spending all her money then killing himself when she found out. Damn Jeremy for refusing to let her have some of her girls’ trust money.  It wasn’t fair that she was the one who had to suffer for her husband’s stupidity. It wasn’t fair that she had to live on her sister’s charity when her children were rolling in trust fund money. It wasn’t fair that she had to beg, borrow or steal to live the way she should live, the way she was meant to live, she thought piteously. Then her resolve hardened. Her dear family would pay for her humiliation. Hallie, Jeremy, Cordelia and Dorothea, especially Dorothea.

She thought for a few minutes, then grinned in the dark. Maybe if Dorothea knew what her dear, sweet, rotten son was up to, maybe she wouldn’t think he was so wonderful. The only thing she had going for her was her money. Dorothea didn’t have good kids, like hers, even though hers were totally selfish.

Angrily, Jeanette swung her legs out of bed. Slipping her feet into her fluffy white mules, she paced the floor for a few minutes then walked out onto the balcony that overlooked the ocean. She stood there watching the fidgety waves rolling up against the beach.   The air was warm on her face and bare arms, warmer than normal for February. She could smell the pungent, stifling smell of seaweed as the tide went out, leaving piles of plants to dry on the beach. She was just getting sleepy when out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of white. Raising her eyebrows, she slipped over to the side of the balcony–the peach of her nightgown blending in with the peach paint on the house.

She could see two figures walking down the brick path toward the gazebo. The moonlight was so bright that she could see that the girl was wearing a black string bikini outlined in white. The man with her looked a little like Derek–the same paunch, the same bow legs, the same cocky strut–wearing what looked like a man’s bikini, what Halle called a Speedo.

I’ll bet something interesting will be happening tonight. I think I’ll just take my fancy camera. She chuckled to herself. I’m glad I managed to worm it out of Jeremy. Then she thought, wouldn’t it be fun to hand Dorothea a picture of her precious son with his pants down, or even better completely off. She gave a silent laugh. I’d love to bring Dorothea down a peg or two.

Silently, she reached for her night camera. Quietly, she tiptoed down the balcony stairs.  She chuckled to herself when she realized that the couple were climbing the brick steps up to the flower enclosed gazebo. This would be a good chance to show Cordelia that her beloved summerhouse was being used for immoral trysts. I’ve told her what’s going on but she refuses to believe me. Well, I’ll show her, too. I’ll have all of them eating out of my hand. They won’t be able to refuse me anything.

She left the brick-paved path to walk silently among the flower beds. When she got closer to the gazebo, she kicked off her slippers. Walking barefoot, she climbed up the steps. With a wicked grin, she clicked picture after picture, listening with undisguised disgust to the grunts and groans. She wanted so badly to make an acid comment or a noise or something to scare these two heathens out of their skins but it would be more fun to bring them down publicly.

Then as silently as she had arrived, she slipped down the steps. When she got back to where she left her slippers, she noticed a flash of light near the board walk.

“I wonder what that is?” She hesitated for a minute, then she flitted across the lawn to stand by the boardwalk. She could hear that the tide had turned and was coming in, rolling across the sand, drowning out the voices so that only bits and pieces came through.”

“Pull it....”

 “Careful....” 

“Quiet...don’t want...hear.”

Drawn by curiosity and bitterness, Jeanette quietly climbed the wooden steps. She paused

to listen, then soundlessly she hitched her nightgown up around her waist, so she could crawl across the damp boardwalk.           

She could feel the no-see-ums buzzing around her bare legs but she didn’t dare swat at them for fear she would be heard. After what felt like eons of crawling, she came to the end of the boardwalk. Lying flat on her stomach, she watched three men for a few seconds, then she hastily pulled her camera into position and started taking pictures. When the men headed north toward the Canaveral National Seashore she followed, staying close to the scrub.

Suddenly, one of the men turned. She stepped back into the scrub but he had seen her. He pulled a gun from his waistband, taking aim, but one of the other men pulled the gun down. Their brief, hurried conversation gave her time to run back the way she had come. She had just reached the boardwalk when one of the men caught her nightgown. Twisting and turning, she flung the camera into the scrub as she fought to pull away. Then suddenly she was face to face with her attacker. Terrified she asked, “who are you?”

“Nemesis,” he sneered as the long thin knife blade slid into her heart.