Rebecca turned away from the window and focused on the open page on her computer, but couldn’t find the energy right now to care about weddings or brides or anything to do with romance and happiness and sunny futures. She snapped the laptop closed and returned to the window. Her stomach rumbled, and she eyed the restaurant situated catty-corner at the next block. She should just get going, leave this tiny town and head back to Seattle, but at the thought of her empty condo, she inwardly cringed. And she could work from anywhere as long as she had a decent Internet connection, anywhere in the world.

Maybe she should relocate entirely.

Get farther away from the mess that was her life and out of the drizzle and memories of Seattle.

Since the boutique shop was expanding into markets in California, she could possibly leave Seattle. Maybe a change of scenery was what she needed.

And what about Megan?

Her stomach twisted at the thought of her sister.

And then there’s James . . .

Forget him! He betrayed you. Remember?

Staring through the window, past her own pale reflection, she continued to watch pedestrians on the streets as they hurried along the sidewalk or between parked cars, some burdened with packages, all bundled against the cold as the snow fell. A boy on a skateboard slipped through the crowd, an elderly man helped his wife into a parked pickup, and . . . and a lone figure, standing apart from the rest—a woman, she thought, a scarf wound over her neck and lower face. She kept to one side, but her head tilted upward as if she were staring straight at Rebecca.

So what, was Rebecca’s first thought, but then, as if the woman realized she had been caught staring, she whirled away, ducking down an alley, the rope of her black braid snaking out behind her. Not blond Sophia, who’d ducked into the coffee shop. Who, then?

“What the devil?” Rebecca asked aloud as she told herself it was nothing and her cell phone jangled, causing her to jump. She nearly ignored it, as she’d already talked to her mother and most every other call had been from anonymous numbers, all of which had turned out to be reporters. They could leave a voice-mail message, she thought, but she plucked the cell from the mess of her bed again, and this time she recognized the number: James Cahill.

Her heart beat a little faster, and she told herself to let the call go to voice mail.

But what if he’d learned something about Megan?

Steeling herself, she picked up. “James,” she said without preamble, hoping there was no trace of emotion in her voice.

“Hey, Becca.” Her heart twisted as she remembered how he’d always shortened her name. Not Becky . . . Becca . . . and she’d loved it. “I’m downstairs.”

“Downstairs? Here?” she asked, then before he could answer: “Why?”

A beat, then, “I remember.”

“What?”