“What do you mean?” Fiona asks impatiently.

  “Maybe some of her other friends got the cards, too,” Cassie says.

  Brynn nods. “We need to find out.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “We aren’t,” Fiona firmly informs both Cassie and Brynn, noticing that Tildy has remained conspicuously silent through their speculation, though she’s made no further move to leave.

  “Don’t you think we should know whether this is strictly about the four of us, and somebody possibly knowing what happened that night?” Brynn asks.

  “I’d love to find out, but we can’t go around looking up the Zetas and asking questions without making ourselves look suspicious.”

  “I disagree.”

  Fiona shakes her head at Brynn’s stubborn expression. “You want to start calling people and saying we all got cards from Rachel, and did they get them, too?”

  “Not flat out, but—”

  “No, Fee is right,” Tildy pipes up at last. “We don’t need anyone thinking we might know something about Rachel. Not even now, after all these years. The best thing we can do about all this is keep quiet.”

  “But—”

  Brynn’s protest is interrupted by the waiter returning with a loaded tray.

  They wait in silence as he places their meals before them. As soon as he departs, Fiona says, “Let’s assume that whoever sent those cards knows what we did that night. What do you think she—or he—is going to do about it?”

  “Blackmail us.” Tildy’s answer is immediate.

  Fiona had been thinking the same thing.

  “What if it’s Rachel?” Brynn asks, her meal still untouched, like the others’. “You think she’d want to blackmail us?”

  “It can’t be Rachel, Brynn,” Cassie insists. “How did she survive? Where has she been all these years? Why did she disappear?”

  “I don’t know!” Brynn squeezes her fingertips against her temples. “It doesn’t make sense, but I can’t think of anything else that does, either.”

  “Blackmail makes sense,” Fiona admits.

  “So should we go to the police, then?”

  “No,” the other three answer Brynn’s question in decisive unison.

  “So we should just…what, then? Sit around waiting for something else to happen? Wait for someone to blackmail us? Or…worse?”

  Nobody answers that.

  You would expect Fiona to be the first to emerge from the inn, with Brynn dogging her heels, but that’s not how it happens.

  No, it’s Matilda Harrington who steps out onto the porch less than an hour after Cassie’s arrival, unaware that she’s being watched from the stand of trees alongside the parking lot.

  She looks straight ahead through huge designer sunglasses as she strides toward her Ferrari as though she can’t wait to get in and drive away.

  Already clutching her keys, she unlocks the door with the remote when she’s still a few yards away. She slips behind the wheel, closes the door, starts the engine…

  Is she going to drive off without even spotting the white rectangle on the windshield?

  No.

  The door opens and a hand snakes out to pluck away the envelope.

  Seconds later, the car shifts intoREVERSE and rolls backward, tires crunching on the gravel lot.

  Did she even look at it?

  There wasn’t much time for that.

  No, she most likely tossed it recklessly onto the seat next to her, probably thinking it’s some kind of advertising flier.

  Matilda’s face is visible through the windshield for a moment as the Ferrari rolls past the hiding spot en route to the exit.

  She appears to be utterly poised, as always.

  She wouldn’t be if she’d read what was in the envelope.

  No, not at all.

  Oh, Matilda. You, of everyone, should have bothered to look at it.

  Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you…

  Because, in my own clever way, I tried.

  In the small ladies’ room with its antiquated fixtures, Cassie leans toward her reflection to reapply her coral-shaded lipstick with a shaky hand as Brynn comes out of the lone stall.

  She washes her hands at the sink. Her eyes meet Cassie’s in the mirror.

  “I didn’t even ask you anything else about your wedding.”

  “That’s…understandable.” Cassie gives a choked little laugh and puts the cap back on her lipstick. “It’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

  “It shouldn’t be, though. You can’t let this get to you, Cassie. This should be the best time in your life.”

  Yes. It should be.

  “Did you…um, pick out your flowers yet?” Brynn asks, sounding as though she genuinely cares.

  That’s the thing about Brynn—she really does care.

  Maybe more than I do,Cassie thinks wryly.

  “I’m meeting with the florist soon,” she says aloud, trying to remember the correct answer to the question, “and I was thinking of doing all roses.”

  “In red? That was our sorority flower, remember?”

  “Maybe red, but not really because of the sorority. Maybe I won’t do roses at all.”

  “I had pink and white roses with baby’s breath at my wedding,” Brynn volunteers as she dries her hands thoroughly on the roller towel.

  “I guess I’d go with deeper colors. I wouldn’t want pastels since the wedding is in November.”

  “When is it again?”

  “The weekend after Thanksgiving.” Cassie guiltily avoids meeting her friend’s gaze again in the mirror above the sink.

  Maybe she should invite Brynn and Fee after all. She opted to include only Tildy on the guest list, reasoning that she’s been in more regular contact with her than anyone else these past few years.

  And why is that?

  Because she’s always been closer to Tildy, even back in their college days.

  And why isthat,Cassie? her inner voice demands.

  Because the Boston Harringtons hobnob with the equally wealthy and similarly tragedy-ridden Boston Kennedys. They even have a friendly political rivalry, kindred folk who happen to belong to opposing parties. Of course, the Harringtons are actually involved in politics only through their close association with Troy Allerson.

  Yes, the Boston Harringtons are, according to Cassie’s parents, the kind of people it’s good to know in this life.

  As opposed to the Cape Cod Costellos and the Cedar Crest Fitzgeralds.

  It isn’t that Cassie herself subscribes to that brand of snobbery. It’s just that she has precious little time to stay in touch with anyone from her past, so when she does have an opportunity to catch up with someone, it might as well be Tildy.

  That way, whenever her parents invariably ask how Matilda is and when she last spoke to her, Cassie at least has a satisfactory reply.

  Fiona sticks her head in the door. “Brynn, come on. We could have been halfway home by now!”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Well, hurry up!” The door bangs closed.

  Brynn and Cassie look at each other.

  “Listen,” Brynn says, “about all this—”

  “I know,” Cassie cuts in. “It’s bad. I’m scared. But, Brynn, you can’t tell anyone. Please swear to me that you’re not going to do something crazy, like—”

  “Go to the police.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “You know I won’t. Not behind your backs.”

  Cassie doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know Brynn. Not anymore. She was part of another life, one she left behind—or so she hoped.

  “Just…” Brynn reaches out and gives her a quick hug. “Have a beautiful wedding, okay? I’m happy for you.”

  Cassie nods, suddenly unable to speak, and watches her walk out the door.

  Stepping out onto the porch of the inn, Fiona lights up and takes a deep, satisfying drag.

  There. She feels better already.

  Peace and quiet, fresh air—okay, and smoke.

  After all the tension inside the restaurant, Fiona savors the momentary solitude.

  The only sound is the stream of smoke exiting her lungs and the faint hum of a car passing out onto the highway.

  She should check her messages on her office voice mail again. She did just a few minutes ago, while they were waiting for the check, but the call she’s expecting from James Bingham hasn’t come in yet.

  He should be at his weekend house: once the Gilded-Age “cottage” of a New York financial magnate, the place has forty rooms and sits on a hundred wooded acres high above Cedar Crest.

  Fiona is aching to visit it—and she’s sure she will, if she plays her cards right.

  Patience is the key. Patience and professional decorum, with just a slight hint of flirtation. And restraint. Definitely restraint.

  Surely James has called and left her a voice mail by now. And maybe her sister has finally called back, too. Fee has been trying to reach her, needing to talk…

  About the card. Just in case—

  A large winged creature flutters on a branch overhead before swooping toward the dense thicket surrounding the parking lot. Fiona’s eye follows it as she inhales her cigarette, and she sees a bulky shadow of movement amid the trees.

  She blinks, startled.

  Whatis that?

  Nothing. No big deal.

  But the shadow is moving; someone is definitely there.

  Or maybe justsomething . Can it be a large animal?

  It could be…except a glint of some shiny object just caught the sunlight out there, a few feet off the ground and animals in the wild don’t reflect light. Nothing like…

  There it is again.

  Jewelry? Eyeglasses? What the heckis that?

  Is somebody out there, watching her?

  Peering into the trees through narrowed eyes, Fiona feels her heart begin to race.

  The door to the inn opens suddenly and she jumps at the abrupt sound.

  Brynn.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks Fiona.

  “Nothing. It’s about time,” she mutters, stubbing out her cigarette beneath her pointy-toed shoe. “Let’s go.”

  As they cross the wide porch toward the steps at the far end, closest to the woods, Fiona’s heart is pounding painfully.

  You have to calm down. It was nothing.

  But she stares into the trees, certain someone is lurking there.

  Isaac can hear the music coming from behind the apartment door as he approaches.

  Did he leave the radio on before he left?

  No, it can’t be. He was listening to Z100 that morning. They play popular music.

  This is John Coltrane.

  Kylah loves jazz.

  “I love it almost as much as I love you,” she said before dragging him off to the Newport Jazz Festival last month.

  That bothered him. He couldn’t tell her he loved her, too.

  He does like her. A lot. Much more than he likes jazz.

  But nowhere near as much as he likes—loves—Rachel.

  He shifts his overnight bag to his right hand and checks his watch on his left.

  What is Kylah doing here?

  Right now, she should be at least 35,000 feet above the Ohio Valley, flipping through a magazine and sipping a tiny paper cup of bad airline coffee.

  She shouldn’t be in New York, in her Ninth Street apartment—no,ourapartment, now —listening to jazz.

  His heart sinking, Isaac stands in the corridor outside the door, wondering what he’s supposed to do now.

  He can turn around, walk away, and…

  What? Never come back?

  Just leave her?

  No. He can’t do that. Not yet, anyway.

  There’s only one option.

  Lie.

  Watching Fiona aim the remote at the BMW to unlock it, Brynn notices that Fiona’s hand is trembling.

  She catches her once again looking nervously toward the woods on the far side of the parking lot as she gets into the car.

  Following Fiona’s gaze, she sees nothing unusual.

  “Fee?” she asks uneasily. “Is something out there?”

  “What?” Startled, Fiona swivels her head toward Brynn, then shakes her head. “No, sorry, I’m just…distracted. I’ve got a lot of stress right now with work, and…you know.”

  Yeah. I know.

  It isn’t just about work.

  Brynn fastens her seat belt as Fiona turns her neck to back out of the parking lot, dialing her phone with one hand as she steers with the other.

  Something white on the windshield catches Brynn’s eye.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “Wait, hang on a second.” Fiona presses a key on her phone, then props it against her ear with her shoulder so that she can shift intoDRIVE .

  “There’s a flier or something stuck under the wiper,” Brynn says in a stage whisper as Fee steers toward the entrance, apparently not noticing the white rectangle on the windshield.

  “Shh!” Fiona is still listening to the phone, though not talking into it. She must be playing her messages; Brynn can hear the uninterrupted rumble of a male voice on the other end.

  Shaking her head, Brynn turns away, gazing out the passenger’s side window at the passing greenery. The car picks up speed quickly, heading onto the highway.

  Something white flies past the window, interrupting Brynn’s train of thought. She swivels her head to see that it was apparently the white paper that was stuck beneath the wiper.

  “That thing just flew off the windshield,” she informs Fiona, who is just snapping her cell phone closed.

  Fee shrugs, looking distracted by the call. “Oh, well. It was probably just some advertisement. You’d think a nice place like that would make sure people don’t go around sticking fliers on cars in their parking lot.”

  Right. And you’d think people who find fliers on their cars would take them off before driving, rather than leaving them there to blow away in the wind.