Bliss, home from her short honeymoon, was calling from her cell phone and still sounding breathlessly in love. She and Mason had just gotten back to Oregon and were living at Cawthorne Acres, the ranch John Cawthorne had called his own until his marriage to Brynnie. Brynnie had insisted he give up ranching for fear of his having another heart attack and he’d reluctantly sold the ranch to Mason and Bliss. John and his wife would move into town as soon as Brynnie’s house was remodeled to suit them. Meanwhile, Bliss and Mason shared the place with them.

“Sounds great.” Katie stretched the cord of her phone around the computer monitor glowing on her desk and reached into a drawer for her pen. Her cubicle, or “office,” as it was sometimes referred to, was situated in the middle of a huge room that was divided by soundproof barriers that didn’t quite do the job. The conversation of other reporters, the clacking of computer keys, even noise from the street filtered through the maze of desks.

“Let’s meet at Claudia’s at one and I’ll call Tiffany to see if she can join us.”

“I’ll be there,” Katie promised, making a note to herself. She had an interview with Octavia Nesbitt, Tiffany’s grandmother and president of the local garden club, this morning; then she wanted to talk with the police department and Jarrod about the Isaac Wells case.

Each day, she’d riffled eagerly through her mail, hoping for another missive from the mystery person, but there had been nothing at work or at home. She’d even checked her mailbox at the cottage, on the off chance that the mail hadn’t been forwarded. No such luck.

“Face it, Kinkaid,” she grumbled to herself, “you’ve been led down the garden path.” Lately, it seemed, her life had been bedlam. The move had been exhausting, but finally, most of her possessions seemed to have found new places of their own. Josh’s ankle was fine and he was back at soccer practice, but the car was still a problem; she’d gone to the local dealer and hadn’t been able to locate a used vehicle that suited her. Nor did there seem to be the perfect car in the “Autos for Sale” part of the classified advertisements in the paper. She was still using her father’s Jeep, and though John assured her that it was better she be driving the rig than it be gathering dust in the garage, she wasn’t comfortable without her own set of wheels. Her convertible, if not all that reliable, had been an old friend. She punched out Jarrod’s number with the eraser end of her pencil and prayed that she wouldn’t have to leave a message if he was out.

Her oldest half-brother had the decency to answer on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” His voice was curt, all business.