I climbed into the back seat in a wide-brimmed straw hat and a lightweight trench coat, my blue suitcase in the trunk.

“Port of Miami, ma’am?” the driver asked, glancing in the mirror.

“Terminal D,” I said. “And please, take the scenic route. I want to watch the sun come up.”

As we merged onto I-95, the sky bled from black to a fiery orange. And my phone began to chime with a frantic rhythm. The flight to the Bahamas must have landed, and they’d checked their home security cameras — and seen the boarding service taking their pets away.

Incoming Call: Chloe. Incoming Call: Austin. Incoming Call: Chloe Cell. Voicemail received.

I ignored the calls, but curiosity won. I tapped the voicemail. Austin’s voice filled the cab, thick with sleep and irritation.