James loves her hair.

  That was how it went a step further between them than it should have, really, the other night. There they were, having a 2AM after-dinner drink in an elegant Back Bay martini bar, and James commented that he would love to see her let her hair down for a change.

  Her laugh fluid with top-shelf vodka, she protested, “I’m relaxed right now.”

  “I mean literally let your hair down, Fiona,” he said, and reached out brazenly toward the clip at the back of her head.

  In one swift move, he had it unfastened and her hair was falling down her back.

  The next thing she knew, he was taking her hand and leading her out of there, and she was casting professional decorum to the wind…

  Not a brilliant move on her part. Not just because he’s her client and she can’t afford to lose his account, but because he’s her future. She’s already decided that.

  And, as she likes to tell her daughter,Anything you want in this life can be yours .All you have to do is be willing to work for it.

  Well, she’s going to work to win James Bingham.

  Luckily, she nipped things in the bud before they went too far…that time. Next time, she might not be able to muster enough willpower to leave him and make the solitary wee-hour drive from Boston back to her own bed.

  Provided there is a next time.

  For now, because he’s miles away and because she isn’t an infatuated teenager, she should put him out of her head.

  That plan lasts all of the few seconds it takes her to switch the car stereo from radio to CD and pressPLAY .

  The CD that comes on is the same one she was listening to as she drove home after leaving James that night, the night Tildy died.

  She turns up the volume and the opening drums reverberate through her as she exhales a stream of smoke into the warm breeze.

  U2; it’s an old CD, a relic of her high school days. And her college days. And her life with Pat.

  You’d think she would have long since given up anything associated with her ex-husband, but she doesn’t know new music, doesn’t have time for it. She just sticks with the tried and true.

  Anyway, she still loves U2. She and Deirdre had major crushes on Bono when they were kids, arguing over who would get dibs on him if they ever crossed paths.

  As if two scrawny preteens from a working-class household had a chance of hooking up with rock superstars.

  But they spent a lot of time arguing about it. Fee always maintained that she should get Bono because she’s a few minutes older than her twin, and Deirdre could have The Edge. Deirdre protested that she had the lead singer’s name tattooed on her arm in ink.

  Of course, it was from a Bic pen. But she refused to wash it off for a whole year, hiding it from their parents and going over it again whenever it started to fade.

  When her twin confessed her true sexual preference years later, Fee even brought that up, unable to shed her disbelief.

  Deirdre snorted. “Believe it or not, Fee, I never slept with Bono.”

  “But you wanted to!” Fiona clung to her flimsy “evidence” out of…what? Shock? Dismay? A sense of betrayal? They were supposed to share everything. Deirdre’s secret was huge.

  “We were, what, twelve? And even then, I knew. I just talked about Bono—and boys—because you did. I wanted to be normal, and I didn’t think I was.”

  Coming to her senses, Fiona assured her sister that it didn’t matter who she slept with—unless, of course, it was Bono.

  “I get permanent dibs on him now,” she reminded Deirdre with a laugh.

  And the air was clear again.

  Deirdre was grateful for her support, and it was the only family support she had. Mom and Dad had kicked her out, and she couldn’t live with Fee in the sorority house. She crashed there for a couple of nights, but Fee had to tell her she couldn’t stay. It was against house rules.

  So Deirdre went from there to Europe, where she had adventures and fell in love—a few times—and even saw U2 play live, in Dublin.

  “They play live over here, too,” Fiona couldn’t help telling her sister during that fleeting, long-distance phone call.

  “I know, but…Have you seen them?”

  No, she hadn’t. That was back in the bad old days when she was stuck in a dive apartment with a new baby, flat broke, fighting nonstop with Pat.

  She sat at home, wistful, resentful, as her twin sister traveled all over Europe. She brooded and she played her U2 CDs, including this one. The music helped get her through that unhappy time in her life.

  Now, listening to Bono wailing “A Sort Of Homecoming,” Fiona is struck anew by the lyrics, and she isn’t thinking of her turbulent marital past with Pat.

  See the sky, the burning rain…

  Nor is she even thinking of James Bingham, though she certainly was when she drove home after she threw caution, and professional decorum, to the wind, that night in Boston.

  She will die and live again…

  No, as she drives to the funeral of her sorority sister, unmercifully slain on her birthday, she isn’t thinking of anyone but Rachel Lorent.

  Isaac waits to turn his cell phone back on until he’s in the rental car and safely on his way to Brookline. Boston isn’t an entirely familiar city to him; it was tricky to negotiate the network of roads leading away from Logan Airport.

  But now he’s on the right track, and he can relax…if only for a few minutes.

  Or, maybe not, he thinks as he realizes there’s a message from Kylah.

  “I woke up, and you were gone.” Her tone is unmistakably brittle. “I thought maybe you were out for a run or something, but who am I kidding? I know something’s up with you, Isaac. And I’m sick of feeling like you’re avoiding me…or lying to me, which is even worse. So don’t call me until you’re ready to tell the truth about whatever it is you’ve been up to lately. I’m not stupid.”

  No, she isn’t stupid.

  And she deserves better than this.

  He dials her number—their number—without even thinking through what he’s going to say.

  She answers on the third ring.

  “It’s me. I’m in Boston.”

  “Boston?”she echoes. “On business?”

  For once, he doesn’t hesitate. “No. Not on business.”

  There’s a pause.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “I’m sorry, Kylah.”

  She’s silent.

  “We should probably talk…”

  She snaps, “I’ve been trying to.”

  “I know…and I’m sorry.”

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  Everything else he can possibly tell her; but every single line that comes into his head about this sounds like a lousy cliché.

  I can explain…

  It’s not what it looks like…

  You have to trust me…

  He says none of that.

  Only, “I promise to make it back to New York for the wedding.”

  “Why would you?”

  “Because you want me there…don’t you? And because I want to be there,” he adds hastily, more decisively.

  But he can tell she doesn’t believe him.

  Understandable, since he doesn’t believe him either.

  He doesn’twant to get dressed up in a tux and go to a fancy catering place out in Great Neck. He doesn’twant to sit at a table with an eclectic assortment of strangers whose dates and spouses are also in the wedding party.

  But he’ll do it. For Kylah.

  Because if he doesn’t do it—if he doesn’t start stepping up—he’s going to lose her.

  “If you don’t make it back here for the wedding,” Kylah says tearfully, “then you can go to the apartment instead, and you can pack up all your stuff. Just make sure you’re gone before I get back.”

  “I’ll be at the wedding, Kylah. I promise you.”

  Another pause.

  Then, “Are you in love with someone else, Isaac?”

  Yes. But it’s not what you think. Not at all.

  CHAPTER 15

  The church is quintessential New England: white clapboard and stained glass, its steeple rising majestically against a backdrop of glorious peak foliage and a cloudless sky that is precisely the shade of Matilda Harrington’s eyes.

  The throng of press and curious onlookers is held at bay behind police barricades.

  There is no funeral procession, no hearse, no casket.

  According to the newspaper reports that gleefully dredged up the family’s tragic past, there was none of that for Matilda’s mother and brother, either, twenty-five years ago. Their bodies were incinerated in the crash; there were no remains.

  Matilda’s savaged corpse has yet to be released to the family. When it is, reportedly Jason Harrington will have his only daughter cremated and the ashes buried in the family plot in Brookline.

  Standing beneath a dappled canopy of red maple leaves, Quincy surveys the crowd of mourners making their exit down the broad brick steps. Deb and Mike are posted nearby, doing the same thing.

  First to emerge from the church, as soon as the double doors opened, was Jason Harrington. Boston’s answer to Donald Trump looked wan and ravaged, supported by his loyal friend, the celebrated Troy Allerson, by his side.

  They kept moving, their faces veiled by the requisite dark shades as the press snapped photos and shouted their names. Holding Allerson’s hand was his striking young wife, head bent, wiping tears from behind her own sunglasses. The three of them disappeared into a limousine that immediately drove off toward the Harrington mansion.

  Now the remaining well-heeled contingent, similarly clad in dark designer clothes and sunglasses, is slowly making its way toward the line of waiting town cars stretching down the street.

  The others mingle on the sidewalk in the unseasonably hot Indian summer sunshine, hugging, weeping, chatting in muted tones.

  Quincy watches them carefully, wondering if Tildy’s mystery lover—assuming Ray Wilmington was telling the truth—might be among them.

  Her e-mail account yielded a confirmed reservation for the Glenwood Springhouse in Central Massachusetts this weekend—which explains the cryptic G.S. entry in her date book. Obviously, the letters weren’t initials after all, but shorthand for her weekend getaway plans.

  She had reserved the inn’s Weekend Romance package, which means she probably wasn’t planning on a solo escape.

  Was her boyfriend planning to join her? And why was she so secretive about her relationship?

  Quincy has a couple of good theories: either he was married, or dirt poor, and thus unsuitable. Or all of the above.

  A sudden brisk breeze kicks up, stirring the branches overhead.

  Maybe, Quincy thinks, Ray really did kill Matilda in a fit of jealousy over her secret boyfriend.

  Or maybe he’s a psycho stalker who killed her and then made up the secret boyfriend story.

  Or maybe her secret boyfriend does exist and killed her himself, in a fit of rage.

  Quincy isn’t ruling out any of those scenarios—or anything else, at this stage.

  A hired killer, say, if it was premeditated—and the lack of fingerprints at the scene suggests that it was.

  Then again, Quincy can’t help but acknowledge that a hit man would have stopped at the mortal blow to the victim’s head. You’re in, you’re out. You don’t hang around before or after to stage a scene; you don’t leave anything behind.

  He studies the crowd of mourners intently, zeroing in on every face for some slight but telltale anomaly.

  So…Was it someone else?

  Someone who knew her well enough to be present today?

  Someone who is, at this very moment, expertly feigning grief…and masking guilt?

  Someone who—

  Quincy’s thoughts break off abruptly.

  He squints into the sun, then shades his eyes with his hand to be sure he’s seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

  Yes. Without a doubt.

  And the Harrington murder case has just taken a drastic turn in an entirely new direction.

  As another gust permeates the warm sunshine falling on her hair and shoulders, Cassie shivers, disproportionately chilled to the bone.

  Standing here at the foot of the church steps, she can’t help but feel as though someone is watching her. Someone who knows about that night ten years ago—and that Cassie’s birthday is tomorrow.

  Every time she thinks of it, she feels physically ill.

  What if…?

  No. Stop. For now, anyway.

  She’s gone over the endlesswhat ifs nonstop for over a week now.

  Alec offered to join her for the memorial service this morning, as did her mother. Her fiancé’s motives were undoubtedly pure, unlike her mother’s, but she turned them both down unequivocally.

  She did it over the phone, because that’s always easier than face-to-face, and because she hasn’t seen a soul in days. Alec is at the end of his rope, demanding to see her, demanding that she get some help. He says it isn’t normal to react this way, even to your friend’s murder.

  But he doesn’t know the whole story.

  Barricaded in her condo for the past week, the new alarm system set and the shades drawn, she has yet to return to her pediatric residency. At this point, she doubts she’ll be welcomed back with open arms.

  She hasn’t returned a series of increasingly curt phone calls from the staff, including Dr. Prevatt, in a few days now.

  But sooner or later, she’ll have to return to the land of the living. She’s been telling herself she just has to get through today, and then she’ll be able to function again.

  Today—and tomorrow.

  After that, she’ll start picking up the pieces, salvaging what she can from her employment and her relationship.

  “Are you okay?” Brynn asks in a low voice, standing beside her, looking surprisingly put-together in a black crepe dress and low heels.

  “Sort of. Areyou okay?” Cassie returns.

  “Same as you. This is surreal.”

  For a moment, they watch Fiona chat with a well-dressed businessman she met while they were both sneaking a curbside smoke earlier, before the service.

  Now, as Fee exchanges business cards with him, Cassie murmurs, “Some things just aren’t sacred with her, are they?”

  Brynn flashes a tight-lipped smile. “What, you mean networking at a funeral isn’t acceptable behavior?”