“Not at all. Who should I make it out to?”

His green eyes blinked away. “Just your signature would be great.”

Caitlin noticed more scar tissue on his neck. Not from acne, maybe a burn. “Are you a collector?”

His eyes returned, brightened. “A collector?”

“Sure, autographs. I hate to say it, but I doubt my signature will make you any money.”

He closed the book, held it to his chest. “You did so much without help from anyone, and I spend a lot of time alone. Maybe if I keep a piece of you, your strength will rub off.”

“People mean well,” Caitlin said, “but the only person I count on is me.”

He thanked her and left, weaving through the bookstore’s racks briskly, despite an uneven gait and slight limp, clutching her book like a religious tome. After last night’s admission and the morning’s crying jag, Caitlin wondered if he wasn’t already the stronger of the two.

The bookstore event staff began their cleanup, and Lakshmi finally approached.

Caitlin started. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to read any of the Chapman material—”

“I know. You would have rung,” Lakshmi said, serious.

“Because?”

“Because you would be angry, and you would want answers.”

Caitlin sighed. “Lakshmi, I like you, but that doesn’t change what I’m about to say. Horrible things happen in life, to us and the people we love. Answers to questions this big take time, no matter how angry we are.”

“I don’t need you to find Angela, Miss Bergman.”

“Good, because I’m sure the police and every news agency in the Midwest have already done exactly what I would do.”

Lakshmi rolled her eyes the way only a young woman could. “No, they wouldn’t, but that’s not my point. A body’s been found.”

The words hit Caitlin in the gut. “Is it her?”

“I don’t know. They said they’ll only give information to professional news outlets.”

The frustration in the girl’s voice hit even harder.

Caitlin checked the time. “I can give you two hours.”

Chapter 5

CHAPTER

5

SUCH A WOMAN.

The young man stared at the signature, the book propped against his mirror.

Firm strokes, deliberate, practiced. Nowhere near as refined as the note he’d slipped under her hotel room door, but made by a sure and steady hand.

A woman. Not a girl acting mature, but sure of herself, strong, and confident. A survivor.