Her first instinct was to run. She turned back to the cab, opened the door, stopped.

“You forget somet’ing, lady?” The cabbie, a young Haitian, looked up from writing in his trip book.

“No. No. I thought I had.” She sounded foolish even to herself. She was foolish, she decided. The blue car moved steadily down the street.

There had been a time when the fear of being followed was as much a part of Jenna’s life as eating or sleeping. But the years had passed and nothing had happened, and now she could not remember the last time she had worried about the man who seemed always to be at the bus stop or the woman who seemed always to be walking her corgi or the car that seemed always to be in the rearview mirror.

Until just now.

She was sure it was the man she had seen near the bookstore. Almost sure. But what if he was? Boston wasn’t such a large place. It was possible for a person to be on Newbury Street in the morning and on Commercial Street in the after- noon. But still …

Far down the street, the blue car turned right and disappeared.

Jenna stood watching for a moment, then took a couple of deep breaths. Forget it, she told herself, it's nothing. Nothing has happened in fifteen years, and nothing is happening now.

She went into the building. A security guard sat at a mahogany desk. For a split second, Jenna thought of asking him to look out for a red-haired man. Forget it. Relax.

She signed the in-out register. “I’m here for the Barry Manning show. Has a Mr. Pierce arrived?”

The guard scanned the page. “Pierce? No. Don’t see him.”

Damn. Jenna had hoped that Brad would be there to help her through her stage fright—the butterflies were already beginning to flutter their cold little wings—but apparently he was still angry. Or perhaps he wanted to remind her what it was like to be alone.

“He’s not gonna be on the show, is he?” the guard asked.

“No. He’s just … a friend. But if he does come, let him know where I am, will you? Wherever that might be?”

“Third floor. Right this way.” The guard escorted her to the elevator and pressed the button.

The offices of the Manning organization were surprisingly small, and the few people all looked to be caught up in crises. Finally, a woman with earphones dangling around her neck like a doctor’s stethoscope noticed Jenna and introduced herself as Courteney Cornmeyer, the show’s producer.

“We’re very happy to have you,” she said sincerely, adding somewhat less convincingly, “I was reading your new book just the other night.”