Her voice was calm, almost flat. She was just a woman telling a mildly distasteful story. One that had happened to someone else.

That’s what she told herself.

“It was dark now. I needed it to be. I called Evan on my cell phone to tell him I was on my way. He always insisted on that. I got to the stretch of the road where I’d hidden the bike, and there were no other cars. I knew it could be done. Had to be. I took off my seat belt. I didn’t think. I’d practiced it in my head a thousand times, so I didn’t let myself think. I opened the door, still driving, swerving, going faster. I aimed for the edge. If I didn’t make it, well, I was no worse off. I jumped. It was like flying. The car soared over the edge, just soared like a bird, then it crashed on the rocks, horrible sound, and it tumbled and rolled and fell into the water. I ran, back to where I had the bike and the bag. I pulled off my beautiful suit and put on old jeans and a sweatshirt, the wig. I still wasn’t afraid.”

No, she hadn’t been afraid, not then. But now, as she relived it, her voice began to hitch. It hadn’t happened to someone else after all.

“I rode down the hills, and up and down. When I got to Carmel, I went into the bus station and I paid cash for a one-way ticket to Las Vegas. When I was on the bus, and it started to move out of the station, I was afraid. Afraid he would come and stop the bus. And I would lose. But he didn’t. In Vegas I got on a bus for Albuquerque, and in Albuquerque I bought a paper and read about the tragic death of Helen Remington.”

“Nell.” Mia reached out, closed a hand over Nell’s. She doubted that Nell was aware she’d been crying for the last ten minutes. “I’ve never met anyone like you, either.”

Nell lifted her glass and, as tears spilled down her cheeks, toasted. “Thanks.”

At Mia’s insistence, she spent the night. It seemed sensible after several glasses of champagne and an emotional purge to let herself be led to a big four-poster. Without protest, she slipped on a borrowed silk nightshirt, climbed between soft linen sheets, and fell instantly asleep.

And woke in the moonlit dark.

It took her a moment to orient herself, to remember where she was and what had awakened her. Mia’s guest room, she thought groggily. And people were singing.

No, not singing. Chanting. It was a lovely, melodious sound, just on the edges of her hearing. Drawn to it, she rose and, still logy with sleep, moved directly to the terrace doors.