Brynn dotes.

  Nothing wrong with that; she adores the boys. So does Garth, for that matter.

  But…Motherhood is Brynn’s life. To the extent that she’s actually suggested—more than once—that they have another baby.

  Garth laughed…until he realized she was dead serious.

  Brynn cried when he ruled it out.

  He often relents when she cries, but not about this. Their little house is already overflowing, they can’t afford to move; they can’t afford another child, period. Money is too tight.

  She didn’t see it that way.

  “Daddy!”

  “I’ve got it!” Garth swiftly hacks through eight slabs of Wonder Bread crust with a butter knife, drops it among the dirty dishes in the sink, and returns the sandwiches to the boys.

  Caleb, still glued to the television, doesn’t acknowledge him, just reaches for a sandwich and chews, robotic, fixated on SpongeBob.

  Jeremy, however, breaks into a baby-toothed grin and announces, “No crust! Yay! I love Daddy!”

  Garth’s heart melts. Maybe he’s not spoiled rotten after all.

  But they definitely are not having another child. No way.

  The phone rings before he can return to his work. It’s Maggie, a mom down the street, wanting to set up a playdate with Jeremy and her son, Zack.

  “That’s Brynn’s department,” Garth tells her. “I’ll have her get back to you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Out to lunch with some old friends.”

  “Lucky her,” Maggie says. “If you have trouble holding down the fort, feel free to drop the boys here to play with mine.”

  Garth, who resents the implication that he’s incapable of holding down the fort, tells her that won’t be necessary.

  At last he returns to the den, a former sunroom with tall windows on three walls, adjacent to the living room.

  It’s warm in here, the midday sun causing a greenhouse effect through the row of southern-exposure windows. Garth uses the old-fashioned hand cranks to open all of them, as well as the tree-shaded north-facing ones on the opposite wall. Instantly, a cross-breeze wafts into the room.

  There. Much better.

  He settles once again at his large desk, the broad wooden top entirely obscured by research books—though no more “gruesome” ones, in keeping with his promise to Brynn—along with stacks upon stacks of papers and notes, plus his desktop computer components.

  The computer is on its last legs, but of course they can’t afford a new one. It takes a few full minutes for the antiquated system to boot up.

  As he waits, Garth stares at a framed photo of himself with Brynn, snapped just before their wedding. She framed it for him as a gift that first Christmas together, when their newlywed budget was too strained for extravagances.

  Which it has been ever since. Last Christmas they didn’t even exchange gifts with each other, opting instead to ensure that Santa could bring the boys most of what they asked for.

  Garth tilts the frame to reduce the glare of the sun streaming through the windows, gazing at his wife’s image.

  Look at her. She’s so different now.

  It isn’t that she’s aged, exactly. The picture was taken just eight years ago when she was in her early twenties; she still hasn’t chronologically, or physically, left that youthful decade behind.

  But the Brynn in the picture exudes carefree joy, and her attention is focused solely on her husband-to-be. That’s how it always was back then—so different from now.

  When was the last time she looked at him like that? As though she was really noticing him?

  It’s been a long, long time.

  Definitely not since Jeremy came along.

  She looks at the boys that way, though.

  Garth often catches her staring at one or the other of their sons, utterly captivated by their most mundane actions…or, sometimes, it seems, by their mere existence.

  But in this long-ago moment captured on film, she’s looking only at Garth.

  And Garth is looking at the camera.

  More specifically, at the woman holding the camera.

  How well he remembers that day spent wandering around the autumn arts-and-crafts festival in town, one that was attended by the locals as well as by college students and alumni.

  How well he remembers the irony thatshe, of all people, would offer to take a picture of him with Brynn that day.

  “Okay, smile,” she said casually, aiming the lens.

  Does she still remember that day? Does she remember what happened the night before, when Brynn was working the overnight shift at the Amble On Inn?

  And if she remembers…Will she keep her promise never to tell Brynn their secret?

  You’d better not tell,he warns her silently.

  Not about what happened years ago…or about the sordid past revisited not so long ago at all.

  Fiona immediately spies a familiar figure at the table as she reenters the dining room. Lithe, exotic Cassandra Ashford, wearing a coral sweater that’s striking against her mocha complexion, now occupies the fourth chair.

  “Cassie! Good, you’re here.” Fiona pauses to give her old friend a quick hug before sliding back into her seat. “Where have you been?”

  “I…I had a little trouble finding this place.”

  “And where the heck haveyou been?”

  Fiona looks up to find Tildy gazing intently at her from across the table, chin resting in her propped hand.

  “In the ladies’ room,” she lies smoothly.

  “No, you weren’t. You were outside sneaking a smoke and checking your cell phone.”

  Fiona shrugs. “Guilty as charged…since that apparently is a crime?”

  “Cassie, I almost forgot, let’s see your engagement ring!” Brynn cuts in brightly.

  “Oh, that’s right, congratulations on that,” Fiona tells her.

  She can’t help but notice that Cassie isn’t exactly a gushing bride-to-be as she obligingly extends her left hand. Her smile is stiff, and she’s having trouble answering basic questions about the wedding.

  Either she’s been utterly derailed by this impromptu sorority reunion and the strange birthday card that triggered it, or she isn’t thrilled about getting married.

  Maybe it’s both,Fiona concludes.

  The waiter arrives to take Cassie’s drink order—club soda with lime—and to recite the daily specials.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  They look at each other.

  Typically, Tildy decides, without asking, that they are. “I’d like the escargot to start,” she says promptly, “and then the warm duck club sandwich.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least let Cassie look at the menu?” Brynn protests.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Do you have a chicken Caesar salad?” Cassie asks the waiter, who nods. “I’ll have that.”

  That’s probably not what she wanted, Fiona concludes, watching Cassie as Brynn is ordering a burger.

  She’s as low-maintenance as ever; she didn’t want to make us wait while she looked at the menu.

  Unlike high-maintenance me.

  When it’s her turn, Fiona quizzes the waiter at length about the ceviche and the sorrel salad before deciding on the wild mushroom tart.

  “What?” she asks, catching Tildy giving her another look.

  “Some things never change,” Tildy comments with a smug shake of her head.

  “Like…?”

  “Like being in a restaurant with you. Have you ever just walked into a place and ordered something off the cuff?”

  “No, because when I do get a chance to eat, I like to make sure things are going to turn out to be exactly the way I want them. Otherwise it’s all just a big waste of time.”

  Ostensibly, Fiona is talking about food. But she could be discussing life in general. Or her failed marriage.

  She waits for the waiter to retreat before clearing her throat as a prelude to her announcement: “So, Brynn thinks Rachel is still alive.”

  Three jaws drop simultaneously.

  “Why doyou look so stunned?” Fiona asks Brynn. “You’re the one who said it in the first place.”

  “Yeah, but…I didn’t think you were just going to throw it out there like that.”

  “How can Rachel still be alive?”

  Fiona shrugs at Cassie’s bewildered question and asks pointedly, “What doyou think, Tildy?”

  Matilda Harrington seems to have no qualms about looking her in the eye as she responds, “She isn’t alive. I checked her myself that night.”

  Which, of course, means nothing.

  It wouldn’t be the first time Tildy carried on a lying charade right under their noses.

  But when it comes tothat illicit situation, Fiona concludes that it’s better for everyone involved to let some bygones be bygones, rather than go dredging up every last secret from the sisters’ shared past.

  Because what Brynn doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

  At least, I hope not,Fiona thinks uneasily.

  To Tildy, she says, “All we have is your word that Rachel didn’t have a pulse when you climbed down there.”

  “‘All’you have?” Tildy echoes. “What else do you need? You know my word is worth more than…well, more than…”

  “More than you are?” Cassie supplies. “I mean financially.”

  Tildy responds with a tight little smile.

  “So…the oath,” Fiona says thoughtfully. “I guess that’s what this is all about in the first place, isn’t it? We gave each other our word that we wouldn’t tell a soul what happened that night. But obviously, somebody did.”

  Silence as that sinks in.

  Then Tildy commandeers the conversation. “So then, of the three of you sitting at this table, whose word is completely worthless?”

  “There arefour of us at this table, Tildy,” Brynn points out.

  “Do you really thinkI told? You’re forgetting that I was the one who had to convince the rest of you to do what was best for our sisters.”

  “Rachel was our sister.” Brynn’s jaw is set firmly. “Was leaving her there in the woods best for her?”

  “You mean leaving herbody there,” Tildy clarifies. “We had nothing to do with her death itself. We didn’t cause it or even contribute to the cause. She drank her own disgusting grain alcohol; it’s not like we gave it to her, or pushed her off that rock.”

  Tildy pauses to let that sink in.

  Then she continues, “Look, we all know Rachel was responsible for her own actions that night. We tried to stop her, for God’s sake. But who would have believed we were entirely innocent after what happened to the Sigmas? That night, we did what was best forall of the sisters, not just the four of us. That was my biggest priority. I was the sorority president, remember? I took my oath more seriously than anyone else. I wouldn’t break it.”

  “I honestly don’t think any of us would,” Cassie speaks up. She looks from Fiona to Brynn. “Look, I’m a doctor. That was a hell of a fall. Do you honestly think…what? That Rachel was really alive down there, and Tildy lied about it? You believe that Rachel got up after that fall and walked away—and now she’s back to torment the rest of us?”

  Her words hang in the air, punctuated by ambient restaurant sounds: silver clinking against china, murmured conversations, classical music.

  “It’s either that,” Brynn says quietly after a long moment, “or one of us told somebody what happened.”

  Fiona looks around the table. “Anyone want to come clean on that?”

  More silence.

  “I didn’t think so,” she mutters, reaching for her purse, and her cigarettes, before remembering that she can’t smoke here.

  “This is ridiculous.” Tildy pushes back her chair. “I’m not sitting here while the three of you accuse me of something so heinous, after all I’ve done for all of you.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” Cassie protests.

  “No,you’re not,” Tildy concedes, taking her leather Hermes bag from the back of her chair and slinging the strap over her shoulder. “Theyare.”

  “We’re not accusing you, either.” Brynn touches Tildy’s arm, and looks to Fiona for agreement.

  As irked by Brynn’s benevolent attitude as she is by Tildy’s self-righteous outrage, Fiona merely shrugs.

  “We’re just trying to figure out who could have sent those cards, and why,” Brynn goes on, turning back to Tildy, “and how they could have known what happened.”

  “Maybe theydidn’t know,” Cassie suggests, and is promptly on the receiving end of three blank stares.

  “What do you mean?” Fee asks.

  “Maybe whoever sent the cards just knew that Rachel disappeared on her birthday ten years ago, and that she was our friend. It was all over the news at the time, remember?”

  “Remember?” Fiona echoes, thinking back to the media blitz that followed that terrible night. “Is there anything about any of it that we can possibly ever forget?”

  Rachel’s pretty face was plastered everywhere, fromThe Today Show to the evening news, from the front page of all the New York tabloids toPeople magazine.

  Impressive coverage. The case held certain elements of mass appeal: a beautiful coed from a privileged family had vanished without a trace, and on her birthday, no less. People ate that stuff up.

  Always have, always will.

  In the past decade, other beautiful young women have mysteriously disappeared, just as Rachel did.

  Chandra Levy, Elizabeth Smart, Natalie Holloway…

  Sometimes, their stories have happy endings. Others conclude tragically. But even recovered remains bring closure.

  There was no closure for the Lorent family. There were no remains to bury in the family plot on Long Island.

  Eventually, rumblings began to surface in the media, just as there were rumors on campus, that Rachel had simply run off somewhere on her own. Gradually, her story faded from the public eye.

  Of course, she was resurrected in the local press on the first few anniversaries of her disappearance, and when her father died of cancer a couple of years ago, and whenever a similarly high-profile case came along. But for the most part, it was over.

  For everyone but Rachel’s family…

  And the four of us…

  And whoever sent the cards.

  “So, if that’s the case—if the cards came from someone who knew about Rachel from the news, and not what really happened,” Brynn says slowly, absorbing Cassie’s theory, “then maybe it’s just some sicko who remembers reading about it in the press, and the four of us aren’t the only ones who got them.”