He stepped into the minuscule bathroom, where cabinet drawers had been opened; Megan’s “scrubs,” the clothes she’d been wearing at work, according to coworkers, had been stripped off and dropped onto the floor, left alongside a pair of thick-soled shoes. On the bureau top, a scattering of scarves, jewelry, and a pair of socks. A silver necklace was nearly falling into an open drawer, its filigreed cross winking in the half-light.

No purse, laptop, or phone had been located.

All evidence pointed to Megan Travers having left in a hurry.

Alone?

Or with someone?

By choice?

Or forced?

He hesitated just a second, then scooped up the necklace and dropped it into his pocket.

Fingering the tiny links, he walked into the living room again, stared at the nearly drunk bottle of diet soda on a side table, then stood before a bookcase where pictures filled a couple of shelves, all of Megan, all more flattering than her driver’s license photograph. There was one shot of her with James Cahill, standing under an arch with lettering that read CAHILL CHRISTMAS TREES. Other photos were of Megan with people he didn’t recognize, possibly some of those friends and acquaintances that he had phoned when she’d first gone missing, each and every one of them saying the same thing, that they hadn’t heard from Megan “for a while” or that they “had lost touch” with her.

Except, of course, for the people she’d met in Riggs Crossing.

According to the people she worked with at the McEwen Clinic, Megan had left as she normally did and wasn’t visibly upset on the day she’d disappeared. Possibly on the way home, a short drive, or after she had arrived here, she’d gotten an upsetting phone call? Or met with someone? The trip from the McEwen Clinic was less than three miles.

Five minutes, tops.

She’d then come into the apartment, stripped out of her work clothes, pulled on others, and stuffed an overnight bag with essentials—makeup, clothes, and electronics. She’d taken the time to scribble a handwritten note. The pad of the same kind of sticky-note stationery had been left on the coffee table, along with near-empty glasses and a stained coffee cup. Then she’d left, not even bothering to lock the door behind her.

She had presumably driven to Cahill’s home, confronted him, they’d fought, and she’d left again, nearly colliding with the snowplow and calling her sister from the road in the middle of a winter storm. She’d been heading west, driving erratically, according to at least one witness, presumably to Rebecca Travers’s home in Seattle.

Somewhere between here and there Megan had vanished.

He stood in the middle of the messy living room, clutched the chain inside his pocket, and closed his eyes, imagining the scene, sensing Megan’s anger. Her fury.

She runs into the apartment.

Upset.