Maybe she should relocate entirely.
Get farther away from the mess that was her life and out of the drizzle and memories of Seattle.
Since the boutique shop was expanding into markets in California, she could possibly leave Seattle. Maybe a change of scenery was what she needed.
And what about Megan?
Her stomach twisted at the thought of her sister.
And then there’s James . . .
Forget him! He betrayed you. Remember?
Staring through the window, past her own pale reflection, she continued to watch pedestrians on the streets as they hurried along the sidewalk or between parked cars, some burdened with packages, all bundled against the cold as the snow fell. A boy on a skateboard slipped through the crowd, an elderly man helped his wife into a parked pickup, and . . . and a lone figure, standing apart from the rest—a woman, she thought, a scarf wound over her neck and lower face. She kept to one side, but her head tilted upward as if she were staring straight at Rebecca.
So what, was Rebecca’s first thought, but then, as if the woman realized she had been caught staring, she whirled away, ducking down an alley, the rope of her black braid snaking out behind her. Not blond Sophia, who’d ducked into the coffee shop. Who, then?
“What the devil?” Rebecca asked aloud as she told herself it was nothing and her cell phone jangled, causing her to jump. She nearly ignored it, as she’d already talked to her mother and most every other call had been from anonymous numbers, all of which had turned out to be reporters. They could leave a voice-mail message, she thought, but she plucked the cell from the mess of her bed again, and this time she recognized the number: James Cahill.
Her heart beat a little faster, and she told herself to let the call go to voice mail.
But what if he’d learned something about Megan?
Steeling herself, she picked up. “James,” she said without preamble, hoping there was no trace of emotion in her voice.
“Hey, Becca.” Her heart twisted as she remembered how he’d always shortened her name. Not Becky . . . Becca . . . and she’d loved it. “I’m downstairs.”
“Downstairs? Here?” she asked, then before he could answer: “Why?”
A beat, then, “I remember.”
“What?”
“That night. With Megan. I remember.”
She swallowed hard. “Oh.”
“I thought you should know.”
Her heart began to pound. “Tell me.”
“Face-to-face.”
“No, I don’t think—” she started to argue, then looked frantically around her small hotel room: the unmade bed, her computer on the covers, the clothes she’d worn earlier tossed over the back of a chair. The thought of him in her room—her space—was intimidating. She began cleaning up, straightening the covers. “Not here.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, but just not here.”
“We’ll figure it out.” He sounded so sure of himself.
Her heart was hammering. She needed to talk to him. She wanted to talk to him. Wasn’t that the reason she’d come all the way to Riggs Crossing to begin with? To find out what he knew, what he remembered?
Or was there another reason? Now that Megan was gone—
“I’ll come down,” she said quickly, breathlessly, cutting off that thought.
“I’ll meet you by the front door.”
She clicked off and wondered if she was about to make the worst mistake of her life.
CHAPTER 26
“Come on, lady, let’s go.”
The security guard, a big, burly man in a too-tight uniform, motioned Charity off the front porch as a fine mist, visible in the light from the streetlamps, fell around them. The Northern California night was close, the air as thick as it was cold.
“I wasn’t doing anything!” she declared when the guy tried to grab her arm. She yanked it away and glared at Lenora Travers, who was standing in the doorway of her town house. What an A-1 bitch! And she knew it!
Lenora was wearing a long dressing gown cinched tightly around a wasp-thin waist, house slippers, and a pained expression that said it all.
“You’re trespassing,” the guard rebuked Charity loudly enough for Lenora to hear. She could tell he wanted to prove that he was in control. More softly, into Charity’s ear, he singsonged, “Come on. Just get in your car and drive away. Before I have to call the cops.”
“You mean the real police? You’d actually call them?” Charity demanded.
The security guard made another reach for her arm, this time catching an elbow, his beefy fingers clamping over the sleeve of her raincoat.
“Let me go!” she hissed. “I just wanted to ask her some questions.”
“Yeah, well, Ms. Travers, here, she don’t want to answer any. You got that?”
Oh, Lenora Travers’s attitude was all too clear. Arms crossed imperiously over her chest and backlit by the interior lights, Megan’s mother hoisted her chin toward the sky. Eyeing Charity as if she were little more than a cockroach, she announced, “You’re not an invited guest.”
“I told you I’m with the press.”
Lenora’s gaze moved to the pseudo-cop. “If you’ve got this, Hank, I’m going inside.” She was already turning away.
“You do that, Ms. Travers. We’re cool here.” Hank’s breath clouded in the air and smelled of his last cigarette mixed with some kind of mint flavoring. Ugh!
Charity called after Lenora, “Wait! I just want to ask you some questions about your daughter. Come on, Ms. Travers. Don’t you want to find out what happened to her?”
Lenora stiffened, then looked over her shoulder. “I’m sure the police are doing everything they can.”
“But maybe I can help. The power of the press and all,” Charity insisted, frantic. She’d come all this way and didn’t intend to be tossed aside.
“Oh, I seriously doubt that.” Lenora walked into her house and pulled the door shut with a soft but definitive thud while Hank practically pushed Charity off the porch.
“Damn it,” Charity grumbled and only then noticed the other people, curious neighbors who had come out to stand on their
