The man to whom she spoke looked startled for a moment, as if he were driving on some dark, empty stretch of road and a deer had suddenly bounded into his path. Then he laughed, and there was so much in the sound, a shared camaraderie, a hint of superiority, an undercurrent of privilege. No doubt he’d learned to laugh like that in the hallowed halls of Harvard or Stanford. “What do people like us know about poverty or loneliness? There must be one hundred people here, at your birthday party, and God knows the champagne and caviar didn’t come cheap.”

Tully stood there, trying—and failing—to remember his name. He was her guest; she ought to know who in the hell he was.

And why had she made such a ridiculously transparent remark to a stranger?

Disgusted with herself, she finished the martini—her second—and walked over to the makeshift bar that had been set up in the corner of her penthouse. Behind the tuxedoed bartender, the glittering starburst of the Seattle skyline was a magical combination of bright lights and black sky.

She waited impatiently for her third martini, making small talk with the bartender. The minute the drink was ready, she set a course for the terrace, sailing past the table overflowing with foil- and ribbon-wrapped gifts. She knew without opening a single package the kind of gifts she’d received: champagne glasses from Waterford or Baccarat; silver bracelets and frames from Tiffany; Montblanc pens; perhaps a cashmere throw or a pair of blown-glass candlesticks. The kind of expensive presents that strangers and co-workers gave each other when they’d reached a certain economic status.

There wouldn’t be anything personal in any of those beautifully wrapped packages.

She took another sip of her martini and went out onto the deck. From the railing, she saw the barest outline of Bainbridge Island. Moonlight painted the forested hills silver. She wanted to look away but couldn’t. It had been three weeks since the broadcast. Twenty-one days. Her heart still felt cracked beyond repair. The things Kate had said to her kept running on an endless loop through her mind. And when she managed to forget, she saw them in print, in People magazine or on the Internet. Her own mother didn’t even love her . . . there’s your icon: a woman so warm and caring, she’s probably never said I love you to another human being . . .

How could Kate have said that? And then not called to apologize . . . or to say hello . . . or even to wish her a happy birthday?

She finished the drink and set the empty glass on the table beside her, still staring out across the black expanse of water. Behind her, she heard the phone ring. She knew it! She ran back into the condo, pushed through the people crowded in her living room, and went into her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.