“Why wouldn’t he take his cell with him?” she asked, a line of concern creasing her brow. “I’m worried about him. He isn’t stable.”

“What do you mean by not stable?”

Her gaze dropped to the counter. “He drinks a lot.”

Conor touched her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“When we spoke last week, he told me he was coming here for the holidays. I could tell something was wrong. I think it was the first time he sounded sober in years.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“I guess.” She pulled her lip between her teeth. “But he said he needs to talk to me, and it was something he couldn’t tell me over the phone, and now I can’t get hold of him.”

Conor pulled her into a hug.

Woof.

Kirra was standing at the door.

Conor took a sip of water. “I’ll be right back.”

He pulled on clothes and grabbed the leash from the closet. He clipped on her leash and headed outside.

“That was bad timing,” he said to the dog. “She was talking to me. Really talking. I was getting somewhere. So let’s make this quick, OK?” He tugged Kirra toward the grass. “I have plans.”

The dog cooperated, and he was back in the apartment in ten minutes without incident. Maybe he’d overreacted. He opened the closet to hang up the leash. A blue Tiffany bag fell from the shelf and landed at his feet. A card and a small box labeled TIFFANY & CO. slid across the tile. He picked them up.

“Are you back?” Louisa stood at the end of the hall, her eyes riveted on the gift in his hand.

“I’m sorry. I knocked these out of the closet.” He held out the bag. “Do you want me to put it back?”

She backed up a step, the warmth in her eyes dimming. With trepidation, he opened the box. It was a pendant. A gold sailboat gleamed on a thin, elegant chain. He opened the envelope and read the note.

Dear Louisa,

A small token to show how much I miss you. I hope you’ll reconsider your recent move and come home. You are the only one for me. I need you. I’ve always needed you. Please forgive me.

Yours always,

Blaine

“Who’s Blaine?” Conor asked, but he knew. From the devastation on Louisa’s face, Blaine was guilty of something. Conor dropped the bag on the hall table and crossed the tiles to her. She hadn’t moved. He lifted his hands and gently took her by the shoulders. “Talk to me.”

She shook her head, her face paling, anger brightening her eyes.

“It can’t be that bad.” He pulled her stiff body to his chest and kissed the top of her head, but her body still felt wooden.

He lifted her to sit on a kitchen stool. “Please, talk to me. Who is Blaine?”