No—that was wrong. She’d made that pretty clear. The damned thing of it was, he wanted to see her again—despite all the mess of their lives, of . . . and that’s when he heard her voice.

For a second, he thought he was imagining it. He glanced up sharply and focused on the small television screen, and there she was, standing on the steps of the sheriff ’s office and asking for help in finding Megan, even offering up a reward. Snatching up the remote, he increased the volume, then kicked back his chair and rounded his desk to plant himself in front of the small screen. His chest constricted at the sight of her in a long coat and boots, wind pulling at her hair as she spoke, flanked by cops.

For a second, he lost his concentration—the boots, the hair at her nape, the . . . and then whatever wayward thought had pulled his attention away disappeared, and he was caught up in watching Rebecca, chin angled, eyes direct, pleading for the safety of Megan. His heart twisted painfully.

Megan had betrayed her.

He had betrayed her.

But there she was, standing strong, fighting tears. As she quit speaking, a short woman cop took over, asking the public’s assistance in locating Megan, whose picture suddenly filled the screen: straight, near-blond hair that fell to her shoulders, blue eyes twinkling, an easy smile, and a smattering of freckles visible over her short, straight nose.

Again, his thoughts were broken, and there was something in the picture that tugged at him, teased at his memory, and gave him pause. Something important that was too elusive to catch, when the screen split, and half the image was of a black 2010 Toyota Corolla and the license plate number for Megan’s car.

He ignored the invoices that he’d been working on. Leaning his hips against the edge of his desk, James tried to conjure up the thought that had been teasing him—something that had caught his attention while staring at Rebecca on the stairs of the Sheriff ’s Department, then again when Megan’s picture had flashed onto the screen. What was it? He squinted as he thought. It hadn’t been that they resembled each other, because they didn’t, not in looks nor temperament, so what?

Before an answer came, another bit of streaming news flashed onto the screen: LOCAL REPORTER FOUND MURDERED IN SAN FRANCISCO.

“What?” he said aloud. A picture of Charity Spritz came into view, and his stomach sank. Murdered? San Francisco? He stared at her image as the reporter explained that her body had been found in the city, but police thought she’d been killed elsewhere.

His head was pounding with the news, and the questions she’d asked him while standing on his doorstep flitted through his head.