Elise didn’t swoon. Instead, she kept the gun pointed steadily at Anastasia’s head and demanded to know what the hell was going on. Anastasia casually pushed away from the side of the pool, did a lovely sidestroke to the ladder, climbed out, grabbed a towel, and began to dry off, lifting her long, lovely legs one at a time. That’s when Elise noticed how young she was. Maybe in her late twenties. Without looking up, the young woman said, “You can quit pointing that thing at me anytime.” Elise remembered the gun in her hand. She lowered it. “You aren’t Anastasia,” she said. “Of course not.” The woman pulled off the swimming cap and shook out a cascade of red hair. Elise had never been attracted to females, but she was smitten right then and there. This had to be Melinda, Anastasia’s daughter, born after the family rift. Elise could see she had the same power as her mother.
