“I remember the weekend, because of Hannah’s disappearance. But to be honest, most of the rest of it has become fuzzy over the years. And I can barely remember what I had for lunch yesterday.” There was another deep chuckle. “Getting older is not for the weak of heart.”

I knew that expecting any of them to remember anything specific was a long shot, much less something as specific as a creepy man lurking around the campsite. But I couldn’t help feeling defeated. Parker was right. What information could I possibly hope to uncover that the police hadn’t already looked into? They would have asked the same questions I was asking, only they would have done so twenty-five years ago, when everyone’s memory was still fresh.

“Thanks for your time, anyway. I really do appreciate it. If you think of anything, will you let me know?”

“I can do you one better,” Nico said. “I’ll put you in touch with Diana. She was there that weekend, too.”

“Diana Gillespie?” I knew she was the fifth member of the party that weekend, but like Nico, she wasn’t someone James had stayed in touch with. “You’re still in touch?”

“It’s Diana Barlos now.”

“Oh! You married her? I didn’t know that.”

“Well, married, and then divorced. But I can tell you this—Diana has never forgotten anything in her life. She’s incredible that way. Although it’s probably one of the reasons we ended up divorcing.”

Now it was my turn to laugh weakly. “That’s great—thank you. Where is she now?”

“She’s still here in Miami. She owns a boutique called the Pink Tortoise. Do you have a pen handy? I’ll give you her phone number.”

Chapter Seven

As soon as Nico and I hung up, I called the number he’d given me for Diana. She didn’t pick up. I left her a detailed message explaining who I was and why I wanted to speak to her. But unlike her ex-husband, Diana did not call me back.

Stress was knotting my shoulders and back, and my stomach was roiling. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but figured I should eat something. I made a cheese omelet and paired it with a simple green salad dressed in vinaigrette. I sat at the table, picking at my omelet in between sips of a cold Sauvignon Blanc, hoping it would help calm my frayed nerves.