Concentrating, he forced his thoughts to the night she disappeared, to her confrontation with James Cahill.

Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing.

And there she was—Megan panicked and furious, running through her apartment.

I’ll kill him. I will. I’ll kill his cheating ass!

She kicked off her shoes, banged a toe on the corner of her bed, swore, and then stopped short. I’ll make him suffer. All of them. I’ll just leave and not tell him where I’m going. Make him miss me. Make them all miss me! What about Rebecca? And Mom?

“Like they ever cared.” She said the words aloud, her toe throbbing. Mom has her own life. Dad doesn’t give a shit, and Rebecca . . . well, she’ll get by. Besides, she’s never forgiven me for stealing James away. She’ll be glad if she thinks I’m dead . . . that’s it. They’ll all think I’m dead. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when they realize I’m gone. But I can’t give myself away—they have to expect to see me.

She ran to the living room to scrounge in a drawer for a pen and notepad, then jotted out a quick note on the coffee table, stripped off the page, and tossed it into a bag. Still angry, she changed out of her scrubs, taking off her necklace and dropping it onto the edge of her dresser, where she’d left a drawer open. And then . . . and then . . . nothing.

Of course. She hadn’t been wearing it when she’d driven to James’s place.

Letting out his breath, he dropped the necklace onto the counter, where it pooled. Another swallow from the green bottle of beer. So Megan had planned to disappear, at least in those moments when he’d caught a glimpse into her head. Not exactly reliable information, though—gained from a vision while holding a discarded bit of jewelry.

One step away from the loony bin.

Astrid’s little dig seemed more like a prophecy at this point.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he told himself and picked up Sophia’s lipstick.

He fingered the tube, opened it, and noted that the pale gloss was nearly gone, as if this were a favorite shade. In his mind’s eye, Rivers saw Sophia at a darkened bar where the bartender was rattling a shaker of ice. With a sidelong glance her way, he poured a martini and set the frosty glass in front of her. She passed the lipstick to her friend, and the other woman applied a sheen to her lips.

Rivers slashed a little of the pink gloss across his palm. It felt slick and warm, and when he closed his eyes, he saw Sophia’s lips, close up, as if in a magnifying mirror.

It has to be perfect.