He stepped into the minuscule bathroom, where cabinet drawers had been opened; Megan’s “scrubs,” the clothes she’d been wearing at work, according to coworkers, had been stripped off and dropped onto the floor, left alongside a pair of thick-soled shoes. On the bureau top, a scattering of scarves, jewelry, and a pair of socks. A silver necklace was nearly falling into an open drawer, its filigreed cross winking in the half-light.
No purse, laptop, or phone had been located.
All evidence pointed to Megan Travers having left in a hurry.
Alone?
Or with someone?
By choice?
Or forced?
He hesitated just a second, then scooped up the necklace and dropped it into his pocket.
Fingering the tiny links, he walked into the living room again, stared at the nearly drunk bottle of diet soda on a side table, then stood before a bookcase where pictures filled a couple of shelves, all of Megan, all more flattering than her driver’s license photograph. There was one shot of her with James Cahill, standing under an arch with lettering that read CAHILL CHRISTMAS TREES. Other photos were of Megan with people he didn’t recognize, possibly some of those friends and acquaintances that he had phoned when she’d first gone missing, each and every one of them saying the same thing, that they hadn’t heard from Megan “for a while” or that they “had lost touch” with her.
Except, of course, for the people she’d met in Riggs Crossing.
According to the people she worked with at the McEwen Clinic, Megan had left as she normally did and wasn’t visibly upset on the day she’d disappeared. Possibly on the way home, a short drive, or after she had arrived here, she’d gotten an upsetting phone call? Or met with someone? The trip from the McEwen Clinic was less than three miles.
Five minutes, tops.
She’d then come into the apartment, stripped out of her work clothes, pulled on others, and stuffed an overnight bag with essentials—makeup, clothes, and electronics. She’d taken the time to scribble a handwritten note. The pad of the same kind of sticky-note stationery had been left on the coffee table, along with near-empty glasses and a stained coffee cup. Then she’d left, not even bothering to lock the door behind her.
She had presumably driven to Cahill’s home, confronted him, they’d fought, and she’d left again, nearly colliding with the snowplow and calling her sister from the road in the middle of a winter storm. She’d been heading west, driving erratically, according to at least one witness, presumably to Rebecca Travers’s home in Seattle.
Somewhere between here and there Megan had vanished.
He stood in the middle of the messy living room, clutched the chain inside his pocket, and closed his eyes, imagining the scene, sensing Megan’s anger. Her fury.
She runs into the apartment.
Upset.
She strips off her clothes and changes, grabs her things from the bathroom and closet, stops at the coffee table to write a note.
Why bother if she were going to face James Cahill?
She rips the sheet from the notepad and is so angry she flies outside, not bothering to lock the door behind her, and—
Click.
His eyes flew open.
“Who the hell are you?” a woman demanded from the open doorway, her hand on the knob. She was poised to step inside but instead kept her distance.
He let go of the necklace, allowing it to fall into the depth of his pocket. “Detective Brett Rivers, Riggs County Sheriff ’s Department.”
“You have ID?” She was wary, dark eyes assessing.
“And you?” he asked, even as he recognized her from one of the pictures on the shelf. He reached into his pocket, and her eyes followed his move. When he found his wallet and opened it, she didn’t relax.
“What’re you doing in my sister’s apartment?” she demanded.
Rebecca Travers. He’d figured as much. Around five nine or ten, with darkish auburn hair pulled back and covered in the hood of a ski jacket, she had little, if any, resemblance to the missing Megan.
“Looking around.”
“The manager said the police had come and gone.”
“We did. But I wanted another sweep,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Why?”
“Just in case I missed something the first time around.”
“Does that happen often?” She was still in the doorway, snow falling behind her.
“No.”
“It looked like you were in some kind of trance or calling up the dead or . . . whatever. With no lights on, just an app from your phone. Weird.”
He let that go. “You’re Rebecca.”
She gave a stiff nod. “That’s right.”
“We’re supposed to meet this morning.”
“At the Sheriff ’s Department,” she pointed out. “Not here.”
“And you came by, why?”
“It’s my sister’s place. I have a key. Not that I needed it, but I thought . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she frowned. “I don’t know what I thought I’d accomplish, but I was hoping that something here”—her gaze, which had been fastened on Rivers, slid to survey the rest of the untidy room—“might help me figure out what happened.”
“Is there anything?” he asked and thought about the necklace he’d lifted.
She hesitated, took a step inside, and shook her head. “No.” She didn’t bother shutting the door, obviously not trusting him completely, allowing a cold breeze to blow through the small rooms as she snapped on a light.
Her gaze traveled over what, he assumed, were the familiar objects in the living area. Letting her hood fall away, she walked to the bookcase and picked up the picture of Megan and herself in a restaurant, their heads together, big smiles on their faces, colorful drinks on a table in front of them.
A shadow crossed her face as she set the framed photo back on the shelf.
“Is this the way the apartment usually was—how she kept it?”
“Yeah, probably. I’ve only been here a couple of times, and Megan isn’t the neatest person on the planet.”
“So you don’t see anything unusual?”
Stepping through a small dining area to the kitchen alcove, she said, “No, but I’m probably not the best person to ask.”
“Who would be?”
A pause as she eyed
