“It’s okay,” she lied. It was easier than arguing.
“I’m on my way to the club, if I can avoid that reporter. After I’m done at the gym, I’ve got dinner with Mel. I’ve told you about him, right?”
“Yeah, Mom, you have.” A dozen times. Maybe twenty. Mel Davis, the sexy, retired stockbroker Lenora had met at bridge club and who was now pressing to move in. “He’s a very nice man. Quite possibly ‘the one,’ if you know what I mean.”
The one . . .
How many billion people were in the world? Seven? Or was it eight? What were the odds of finding “the one,” who just happened to have joined the same club as you? The “one” who had been married four times already?
Her thoughts ran to James for a second before she shut them down. She couldn’t think about him without all the “what-ifs” circling her brain driving her crazy. He could get to her without even hardly trying.
There’s no going back.
“Mel has been a big help during all of this,” Lenora was saying, and it sounded as if her car had stopped, as the rush of traffic noise had disappeared. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without him.” Her voice actually cracked. “He talked me out of coming up there, to Briggs Crossing.”
“Riggs, Mom. Riggs Crossing.”
“Whatever. Anyway, Mel has been my rock, let me tell you.”
“Good.”
“And you, dear. Knowing that you’re there searching for your sister, putting pressure on the police, I can’t tell you what a comfort that is, Becky.” Rebecca heard a click, as if Lenora had just opened the door of her Cadillac.
Eyeing her open suitcase, Rebecca said, “I don’t know how long I can stay here, Mom.”
“Well, you have to. Until Megan’s found.”
“That might not be happening.”
“Oh, Rebecca, don’t tell me you’re giving up. Not on Megan—”
“It’s not that.”
“Please . . . just . . . stay. I watch some of those detective shows where the family keeps the pressure on the police and does their own detective work, you know, won’t let it lie? It always helps.”
“I have a job.”
“What’s that compared to finding your sister? Didn’t you tell me you could do your work anywhere?”
“Most of it,” Rebecca admitted grudgingly.
“Then don’t give up. You know I’d be there if I could, but I just can’t. Not right now. I never dreamed some reporter would come all the way down here. But speaking of that, why don’t you go on TV? You know, like they do, and put a plea out for information on her? Maybe you-know-who could cough up a reward. I would, you know I would, but I’m strapped. Oh, dear—I’ve got another call coming in—Oh! Well, speak of the devil! It’s Mel!” Her voice took on a brighter, almost giddy tone that Rebecca had to steel herself against. “Look, honey, I’ll call you later, okay? Love you!” And with that she clicked off to take a call from “the one.”
Rebecca’s lips tightened. There was no way she was going to call Donald Travers and ask for a dime.
But it’s for Megan, and she needs it.
That naggy, irritating voice that had been in her head ever since Megan had gone missing was at it again. Rebecca felt a duty to help her sister, and really, she wanted to, but she’d been played for a fool so many times, duped by Megan so often that she wanted to resist.
This time you don’t have much of a choice.
This time she could be in serious trouble.
Rebecca ground her teeth in frustration. Getting more deeply involved was her natural instinct, and she loved her sister, but sometimes it was so damn hard. And James Cahill’s involvement made it harder.
Arguing with herself, Rebecca tucked her phone in the side pocket of her purse. She was half packed, ready to return to Seattle and get back to her life. What more could she do here?
Make a public statement. You’ve thought about it, and Lenora wants you to do it.
Put up a reward—you have a nest egg tucked away.
It’s Megan, Rebecca. Megan!
She remembered the little blond four-year-old who had looked at her with such adoring eyes, and a lump filled her throat, even as she called herself seven times a fool. But she had to do it. And she would. She would talk to the police again, put as much pressure on them as she could, even though being around Detective Rivers made her nervous. Not only had he been standing in Megan’s darkened living room, like a thief in the night, but there had been the interview, almost an interrogation, at the station. She’d felt as if she were walking on eggshells there, as if he were laying a trap for her, and at any moment she might fall through a hidden door.
Be cool.
You did what you had to.
Everyone thinks you’re here to help find Megan.
And you are, aren’t you?
“Of course,” she said aloud.
So, relax.
But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until—
Her phone chimed again. She picked it up. Saw Angelica’s name flash onto the screen. Her boss. Great. Just what she needed. Her stomach, already sour, clenched.
She clicked on. “Hi.”
“Rebecca?” Angelica asked, even though she’d known whom she’d called. “Oh, my God, how is it going? Any word on Megan? I’ve been searching the papers and online, but I see nothing.” Angelica had been born near Milan, and though her parents had moved to the States when she was a teenager, there was still a trace of an Italian accent in her speech.
“Nothing yet.”
“Oooh. So bad.” Angelica let out a long sigh. She was an expressive woman, with wavy black hair and eyes as blue as a summer sky. Her olive skin was flawless and her petite figure perfect for
