Chapter
Eighteen
The Brightley Retreat Center, home to the
Better Living Group, as well as several other civic organizations,
was a large, rambling, two-story brick building surrounded by a
wide lawn on three sides, enclosed in a six-foot-high brick wall.
Kristie guided the rented Buick through the open wrought iron gates
and tried to keep her breathing even. The air conditioning ran full
blast, but sweat gathered at her temples and she worried it would
ruin the makeup. The false eyelashes felt weird every time she
blinked, and she wondered if they’d stay on.
She’d been struggling with her nerves ever
since she’d seen Jason pull her car off to the side of the road a
half mile back. She could communicate with him at any time through
her cell phone and the wire he’d helped her
