Though she’d been thwarted so far, Charity knew the old bag was scheduled for a fitness session with her trainer and a massage at the club after the workout tomorrow—Lenora Travers’s usual midweek routine. Charity planned to be waiting when Lenora stepped out of the door of Club Fit and made her way to her car. Then she would spring. Lenora, surprised, would either make a scene or, Charity was betting, rather than risk an embarrassing spectacle in front of friends she worked out with, would agree to a sit-down. Good. Then maybe she would get somewhere. Maybe Lenora would give up some gem of information about Megan or her sister—the woman James had dumped in favor of Megan—as well as come up with a list of contacts, friends and acquaintances, who would help Charity find out what made the missing woman tick. All under the guise of hoping to locate Megan, of course. Which, really, she would be doing as well, Charity rationalized.

And then there was Cahill House. She hadn’t been able to see the records yet, but after she’d visited the place yesterday afternoon and was turned away, she’d received an anonymous tip from a woman who claimed to have been a nurse there years before. She’d refused to give her name, and her phone number had been blocked, but she’d claimed she’d heard from a friend who still worked at Cahill House that Charity had been there nosing around. Then she’d hinted that the Cahills were more involved than just funding the place, that someone in the family might have used the private home for pregnant women to their secret advantage. The nurse hadn’t given up much else. Just that tantalizing hint.

“Unwanted babies,” Charity had guessed when the woman would say no more.

“I didn’t say that. You didn’t hear it from me.”

“I don’t even know who you are. Or if your story is legit.”

“It is. Trust me.”

“I’d like to, but I need specifics,” Charity had said.

“Just know that you’re on the right track. Keep digging.” And then she’d clicked off, refusing to answer a return phone call or a text.

And what would that “right track” be? Charity wondered, thinking that over, but decided it was worth following. Several hours later, she’d gotten the call from another number, the one that set up this meeting. All of this in less than forty-eight hours. So she’d definitely gotten someone’s attention.

Now, wrapping her arms around her middle as a blast of cold air rolled over the bay and seemed to cut through her quilted Kate Spade jacket—well, it was a knockoff, but no one could tell—she started back to her car.