She glanced at the desk in the hotel room, really just a table, where her laptop was recharging, her notes already stacked, a copy of the local newspaper folded after she’d read every column inch of it.

“—I gave him a piece of my mind. I don’t mind if he’s got someone trying to find out what happened to Megan; of course, I don’t. The more help, the better, but that woman was harassing me, and I’m Megan’s mother, have never set foot in that little town, so why in the world . . . Oh, I’m ranting, aren’t I?” she said.

“It’s okay,” she lied. It was easier than arguing.

“I’m on my way to the club, if I can avoid that reporter. After I’m done at the gym, I’ve got dinner with Mel. I’ve told you about him, right?”

“Yeah, Mom, you have.” A dozen times. Maybe twenty. Mel Davis, the sexy, retired stockbroker Lenora had met at bridge club and who was now pressing to move in. “He’s a very nice man. Quite possibly ‘the one,’ if you know what I mean.”

The one . . .

How many billion people were in the world? Seven? Or was it eight? What were the odds of finding “the one,” who just happened to have joined the same club as you? The “one” who had been married four times already?

Her thoughts ran to James for a second before she shut them down. She couldn’t think about him without all the “what-ifs” circling her brain driving her crazy. He could get to her without even hardly trying.

There’s no going back.

“Mel has been a big help during all of this,” Lenora was saying, and it sounded as if her car had stopped, as the rush of traffic noise had disappeared. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without him.” Her voice actually cracked. “He talked me out of coming up there, to Briggs Crossing.”

“Riggs, Mom. Riggs Crossing.”

“Whatever. Anyway, Mel has been my rock, let me tell you.”

“Good.”

“And you, dear. Knowing that you’re there searching for your sister, putting pressure on the police, I can’t tell you what a comfort that is, Becky.” Rebecca heard a click, as if Lenora had just opened the door of her Cadillac.

Eyeing her open suitcase, Rebecca said, “I don’t know how long I can stay here, Mom.”

“Well, you have to. Until Megan’s found.”

“That might not be happening.”

“Oh, Rebecca, don’t tell me you’re giving up. Not on Megan—”

“It’s not that.”

“Please . . . just . . . stay. I watch some of those detective shows where the family keeps the pressure on the police and does their own detective work, you know, won’t let it lie? It always helps.”

“I have a job.”