“No,” she said aloud, her voice startling her as she swung the light over the room and then started for the stairs. Old as they were, they creaked as she climbed and reached the second floor. It felt empty, and two of the bedrooms appeared unused. One had only a twin bed, while the other was cluttered with leftover furniture and bags of clothes, books, and odds and ends. Both rooms, like the floor below, had been searched, as had the bathroom at the top of the stairs and the linen closet. She stepped over a pile of towels that had been left on the floor near the railing and moved into the final room on the floor, James Cahill’s bedroom.

As she pushed the door open, her stomach knotted. She felt more of a trespasser here than anywhere else in the house. Her muscles clenched as she stared at the huge bed, the mattress askew, the bedding on the floor. This was the room where James and Megan . . .

Stop it!

She forced her mind back to the task at hand. To find anything, any tiny bit of evidence that might tell her where Megan was.

Like you can do better than the police.

Maybe. She knew Megan; they didn’t. Tamping down her emotions, she kept her mind on track and searched with only the light from her phone. The battery was winding down, and she’d heard it was better to just turn on lights so neighbors wouldn’t be suspicious, but there were no neighbors out here, and if James returned suddenly, she didn’t want him to see her silhouette in a window, so she kept her flashlight trained on the room.

She checked the nightstands, but both drawers had been dumped, their contents not holding any clues. She pawed through some of the personal things and paused when she saw a package of condoms.

Unopened.

Reminding her.

Her lips twisted, and she pushed aside a forbidden memory.

Of James Cahill.

And how she had once imagined she loved him.

Stupid, stupid woman.

She straightened and told herself this was nothing more than a wild goose chase. Glancing through the window, she noticed sudden headlights, twin conical beams lighting up the lane as a vehicle pulled into the lot.

What? No!

She shot into the upper hallway, intent on hurrying down the stairs, when she heard a voice on the porch. Then the door rattled and suddenly opened.

Oh, no!

“Ralph! Slow down.” James’s voice over the frantic, scattering rustle of toenails on the floor.

The dog?

With a click, the lower level was cast in light, fingers of illumination crawling up the stairs. At the base, she made out a pair of jeans-clad legs.