She strips off her clothes and changes, grabs her things from the bathroom and closet, stops at the coffee table to write a note.

Why bother if she were going to face James Cahill?

She rips the sheet from the notepad and is so angry she flies outside, not bothering to lock the door behind her, and—

Click.

His eyes flew open.

“Who the hell are you?” a woman demanded from the open doorway, her hand on the knob. She was poised to step inside but instead kept her distance.

He let go of the necklace, allowing it to fall into the depth of his pocket. “Detective Brett Rivers, Riggs County Sheriff ’s Department.”

“You have ID?” She was wary, dark eyes assessing.

“And you?” he asked, even as he recognized her from one of the pictures on the shelf. He reached into his pocket, and her eyes followed his move. When he found his wallet and opened it, she didn’t relax.

“What’re you doing in my sister’s apartment?” she demanded.

Rebecca Travers. He’d figured as much. Around five nine or ten, with darkish auburn hair pulled back and covered in the hood of a ski jacket, she had little, if any, resemblance to the missing Megan.

“Looking around.”

“The manager said the police had come and gone.”

“We did. But I wanted another sweep,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Why?”

“Just in case I missed something the first time around.”

“Does that happen often?” She was still in the doorway, snow falling behind her.

“No.”

“It looked like you were in some kind of trance or calling up the dead or . . . whatever. With no lights on, just an app from your phone. Weird.”

He let that go. “You’re Rebecca.”

She gave a stiff nod. “That’s right.”

“We’re supposed to meet this morning.”

“At the Sheriff ’s Department,” she pointed out. “Not here.”

“And you came by, why?”

“It’s my sister’s place. I have a key. Not that I needed it, but I thought . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she frowned. “I don’t know what I thought I’d accomplish, but I was hoping that something here”—her gaze, which had been fastened on Rivers, slid to survey the rest of the untidy room—“might help me figure out what happened.”

“Is there anything?” he asked and thought about the necklace he’d lifted.

She hesitated, took a step inside, and shook her head. “No.” She didn’t bother shutting the door, obviously not trusting him completely, allowing a cold breeze to blow through the small rooms as she snapped on a light.

Her gaze traveled over what, he assumed, were the familiar objects in the living area. Letting her hood fall away, she walked to the bookcase and picked up the picture of Megan and herself in a restaurant, their heads together, big smiles on their faces, colorful drinks on a table in front of them.