“That’s fine. You take all the time you need. Herb and Claire have offered to take your surgeries until you’re ready to come back.”

“Please thank them for me,” she said, giving him a kiss and going to the car.

As Simon pulled out of the parking lot, Kate listened to Hilda’s gentle voice as she read to Annabelle in the back seat. Before they’d gone more than a few miles, passing Oriole Park at Camden Yards, Annabelle had fallen asleep. The three adults were silent the rest of the trip home, lost in their own thoughts. Kate was glad Blaire was coming over this afternoon. She needed to talk to someone. There had to be some kind of connection or clue she was overlooking, something that she was missing.

6

The first thing Blaire saw when she pulled into Kate’s driveway was two men in dark suits and coats standing in front of the door. As soon as she parked and stepped out of the convertible, one of them walked over. “Are you expected, ma’am?”

He looked young. Too young to realize that women her age hated being called ma’am.

“Yes. I’m Kate’s friend, Blaire Barrington.”

He held up a finger and opened a notebook. “Your name is here, but I do need to see some ID, please.”

He obviously didn’t read her books. Though the truth was, despite her fame, few people recognized her face. Occasionally, usually at a restaurant, she’d get a request for an autograph. But for the most part, she lived her life in anonymity. Book signings were a different story. She and Daniel were used to long lines and throngs of people, leaving both of them exhausted and with aching hands by the end. Blaire thrived on it.

She pulled out her driver’s license and handed it over, watching as he snapped a picture with his phone, then motioned for her to go ahead. The door opened before she knocked, and Kate stood in the frame, looking pale and drawn.

“What’s with all the guys in black?” Blaire asked.

Kate started to say something, but then shook her head. “Simon hired them. Just in case . . .”

After Kate shut the door and engaged the dead bolt, she led Blaire from the hallway into the kitchen. Turning to her, she said, “Selby’s here. She came by earlier to check on me.”

Blaire groaned inwardly. The last person she was in the mood for was Selby. They’d barely acknowledged each other at the funeral luncheon; Selby had sat with her husband, Carter, and not with the women. Now she’d have no choice but to talk to her.