The first moments of her return to Seattle were Sara Cage’s worst, at least until the murder.  After what had happened the last time she had been in the Emerald City, she’d had her doubts about venturing back.  But, Seattle felt like her destiny, like she had left something important undone.  She had no real choice.  Sara had repressed the negative events of her past in the port city and clung to her memories of the best.  She allowed herself to be drawn back with memories of Seattle’s views, the coffee and the dating scene.  But given how things were developing, she wondered if maybe she had made a mistake.  So far, she had seen nothing but; gray mist, turned to rain, changing to down pour.  No street vendors purveying paper cups filled with steaming coffee were in sight; and it would be crazy to expect an acceptable date to pop up on the road; although, one never knew where her type of man might be found.

Sara struggled to see through her windshield as the rain pounded relentlessly across her convertible’s fabric top and flooded the glass faster than her wipers could fight back.  This weather wasn’t what she had expected and she loathed the unexpected.  She switched on the radio, searching for the weather notification channel.  She listened as she intently focused on traversing the swaying Mercer Island floating bridge that connected the island to the less affluent portions of Seattle proper.

The tires of her new Ford Mustang, wide and imposing as they were, had to struggle for purchase on the water swept floating bridge that swayed back and forth like a mechanical bull ride in slow motion.  The other drivers, fists tightly wrapped on their steering wheels, belied the communal fear of everyone on the bridge that video of all of their cars careening into the lake would certainly make CNN coverage within the hour.  As Sara inched along, the heavy sway of the bridge threatened to make even the most sea worthy drivers toss techni-color yawns on their dashboards.  Even sea-legs recognize when something feels un-seaworthy and the bridge more than qualified.  

Just after Sara pulled onto the floating bridge, the word came from the port authority to shut the span down.  Had she known that delectable detail, her trip across would have felt even more harrowing.  The moment she passed the pavement connector to the bridge, the minor gale upgraded and whipped the white caps from a tizzy into a furious rage that assaulted downtown Seattle.