She remembered the frantic phone call she’d received from Megan, how freaked-out the younger woman had been. Now, Rebecca felt foolish to have thought she was being played. She should have realized Megan’s panic was real. But how could she when Megan was such a drama queen, such a great actress . . .

But Megan hadn’t been acting or playing a part when she flipped out after her fight with James. She’d been furious, and for the first time, Rebecca wondered if Megan had been distraught enough to do something rash, hurt herself or worse. That didn’t feel right. The idea of suicide was hard to imagine, as Megan had always displayed a zest for life. Yes, she was emotional, her temper legendary, but she wouldn’t harm herself. And certainly not just to prove a point.

The last person who had seen Megan had been James Cahill and she, Rebecca, had walked out on him the other night. Before getting any answers.

Maybe it was time to fix that.

He wouldn’t exactly be rolling out the red carpet for her, but she’d track him down. He had to know something more.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she snagged her keys from the dresser, slipped on a jacket and scarf, and headed out the door. Her near-frozen Subaru was waiting for her in the parking lot, and after giving the windshield a quick swipe with the ice scraper, she climbed behind the wheel and headed out of town.

She stopped at James’s house, found he wasn’t home, and drove to the inn, where she spied his Explorer parked and collecting a layer of snow.

First, she checked the hotel, its lobby festooned in ribbons, lights, poinsettias, and, of course, a Christmas tree that climbed nearly two stories. One man sat reading near a fire burning in a river-rock fireplace; another couple emerged from an elevator. Music and laughter filtered in from the bar, where people had gathered on bar stools and café tables.

But the front desk stood unmanned, no receptionist at the computer.

Rebecca waited anxiously, searching for a bell to ring, but could find none. Irritated, she looked for anyone who might be able to help her and spied two women huddled deep in conversation beneath a glowing EXIT sign that marked a hallway leading toward the rear of the building. The older of the two, a wasp-slender woman with a dour expression and over-permed brown hair, was agitated, a muscle near her forehead ticking. A name tag was pinned to her jacket. It read DONNA BUNN, MANAGER, and she was speaking rapidly, almost out of breath. “—never happened before. It’s just not like her not to call in if she wasn’t going to show up for her shift.”