“Come on, guys.” Liz urged the dogs forward and turned in time to see a black Jeep crest the top of the hill. Late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, and she squinted as the Jeep approached, weaving a little too dangerously for her liking. Her pulse picked up and set her on immediate alert. Somebody might have had a bit too much to drink this afternoon. Odd for an off-season Tuesday, but not unheard of.
    The vehicle jerked left, veered across the road and back again.
    Liz scanned the area for children or unsuspecting cyclists. Thankfully, the roads weren’t that busy now, most of the island’s summer residents and tourists having reluctantly made their way back to the mainland.
    A striped cat suddenly scooted out from under the wild rose hedge to her left, and Liz held her breath. “Seriously?”
    Sure enough, the small animal raced for the road, straight across the Jeep’s path. Tires squealed and skidded, sending sand, crushed shells, and small stones every which way as the vehicle lurched off the road onto the nearest lawn, finally coming to a crunching stop at the base of an old black oak.
    “Stay.” Heart pounding, Liz hastily tied the dogs’ leashes around a low-hanging branch, not terribly confident of their obedience, but they were close to home. She raced down the hill, glanced back to see the two dogs settled under the tree, then pressed on toward the jeep, hoping there wouldn’t be blood. She hated blood.
    There was no sign of the cat, so she assumed it was safe. The Jeep didn’t look as bad as she feared. She hoped the driver was okay. Liz stepped over tire marks embedded in the grass and the bedraggled remains of what had been the last of summer’s magnificent display of roses. Evy McIntyre’s prize-winning roses, to be precise.
    The door on the driver’s side opened with a slow creak. Liz stopped a few feet away and watched a pair of skinny legs clad in tight jeans and clunky black boots emerge. And then a young girl stood before her. 
    A kid. Barely sixteen, if that.
    Great.