An hour later, Malibu stood on a street corner in Russian Hill, a few blocks from the first cottage she had burned. She’d walked a long way to get there, but her legs felt sturdy, like a mountain climber’s. Surprisingly, she wasn’t thinking about Vic’s death or the man whose finger she’d snapped or even the healthy cottage she had burned and the children she had killed. Instead, she was looking out at Alcatraz and the big neon sign. Casino. The bay was empty of boats except for four ferries, two motoring toward the island and two returning to the city.
. CasinoMalibu started to walk down the steep incline toward the bay. She planned to take a direct route to the ferry dock, but halfway down the block she felt an urge to take a detour down a side street. The urge was equal parts push and p
