“Didn’t mean to spook you,” he said, looking at his watch, “but I’m heading out, too.”

The call switched over to voicemail, and there was nothing to do but fall into stride beside him, heading toward the elevators.

I didn’t want to mention that I wasn’t planning to take the elevator but was heading toward the fire stairwell instead—would take the five flights down, like I always did. With the doctor beside me, it was hard to break away without getting into all the reasons why a steel trap was not my ideal means of travel.

The elevator doors dinged and slid open, but no one was inside. “After you,” he said.

I hesitated for a moment, thinking I could tell him I needed to swing by my office first, except I had my canvas bag with me, and I’d already claimed I was in a rush, on my way out.

I stepped inside, closed my eyes as the doors slid shut, pressed my back into the cold metal wall. Listened to the hum of the gears kicking in as the elevator lurched downward.

My stomach dropped as it started to move.

I counted the floors with each ding. Four—“It’s a real tragedy, about that man . . .”

Three—“My secretary said he wasn’t from here. Drugs, maybe? We’ve all seen the statistics rising. No place is immune . . .”

Two—“Are you going to stay out there still? With everything that’s happened?”

The elevator jolted to a stop just before the chime for the first floor. “Excuse me?” I said, stoic.

“Jessie said, well, it’s kind of in the middle of nowhere. And you live all alone.”

Jessie sure had a lot of information for someone I’d met once for twenty seconds.

“I’m not all alone out there,” I said, because at the end of the day, no matter what had happened in Rick’s previous life, I realized that was absolutely true.

ON THE WAY HOME, I paused my car at the entrance to my driveway. I hadn’t checked the mail in a few days. Not Friday night, when I’d stumbled in from the bar, and not Saturday, when I’d been brought back home by Elyse, watched over by both her and Bennett.

Now there were several days’ worth of envelopes and magazines stacked inside. I usually tossed half of it as junk. As I sorted through the stack, I found a handwritten envelope at the bottom of the pile.

There was no stamp, no return address. The only words on the front were my name. No street address, town, or state. Someone had dropped this here in person. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, though there wasn’t much to go on.

I tore the envelope open, pulled out a rectangle of unlined paper.

My hands started shaking before I even finished skimming the first sentence.

Olivia,

You may not remember me, and even if you do, you may want to forget.

Maybe you do remember and just don’t want to talk to me, and I understand that, too.

My name is Sean Coleman, and we were connected many years ago. I was involved in your rescue in Widow Hills.

I understand if you want to leave this all behind you, but I feel some responsibility toward you. I’ve come a long way to see you. I don’t want to scare you, but I need you to contact me.

Please, you can call me at the number below anytime. I’ll be staying at the Highland Inn through the end of the week.

Fuck.

I read it again. A third time. Trying to see something new each time.

Had Sean Coleman come here on Friday night to leave me this letter? Had it been sitting here, waiting for me to find it, ever since?

For one terrible second, I debated tucking it away with the pile of junk mail, slipping it into the trash can, pretending it never existed.

But he’d come here for a reason. He’d come here for me.

And it sounded like he’d come here to warn me about something.

RETURN TO SENDER

No Forwarding Address

POSTMARKED: LEXINGTON, KY

MAY 26, 2011

It’s time to tell the truth. You know what to do. And you know what will happen if you don’t.

CHAPTER 18

Monday, 7:15 p.m.

I HAD TO CALL DETECTIVE Rigby. Sean’s son, Nathan, deserved to know.

They both deserved to know, for different reasons.

I knew what that phone call out of the blue had been like—that your parent was dead. The way information could hurt, just from the fact that it caught you off guard, like whiplash. I pulled out his card. I hadn’t looked at it closely the first time: Nathan Coleman, Security Systems.

He looked the part. I could see him assessing the doorframes and windows. Determining how best to protect a property. It occurred to me now that I might need this type of service going forward.

I took a deep breath. I’d call Detective Rigby first; then I’d tell Nathan directly.

This letter . . . this letter meant there was no keeping it a secret anymore. This letter meant Nathan would know exactly who I was and why his father had come.

Everyone would.

Rick’s truck turned the corner, heading from the direction of town. As he approached, I slid Nathan’s card back into my purse. Rick idled beside me, window down. “Everything okay, Liv?”

There was a heap of plastic grocery bags in the back of his truck.

“Just getting the mail,” I said, tucking the stack of envelopes under my arm. “I’ll be over in a sec to help you with that.”

“There’s no need . . .” he said before driving away, but that was what he always said. The two of us, we were alone out here, and we depended on each other. He, too, was going to find out the truth about who I was. Better from me than someone else. I knew from experience that no one liked to learn they’d been friends with a liar. I’d already witnessed Bennett’s reaction, felt the cooling, the distance; listened as he worked through his theories of what I might be capable of. And Rick had already seen me sleepwalking.

After taking my car up the drive, I dropped the pile of mail on the entryway table. Then I left through the back door behind the kitchen, heading for Rick’s. I avoided the crime scene that I’d shown Nathan yesterday, instead cutting through our backyards.

There was a small garden in Rick’s yard, mostly overgrown at this stage. I imagined vegetables and a flower bed, what might have existed before. At the edge of his yard was a shed, and the door was open. I heard movement inside as I walked by.

“Rick?” I called, peering in.

He was facing away, hunched over a wooden countertop. “Just putting away some tools. Had to fix something in the kitchen earlier,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. I waited just outside the doorway, watching him drop a screwdriver into a bin on a shelf. Everything smelled like sawdust and paint.

“The groceries in the truck?” I asked.

He waved his hand. “I already got them inside, Liv. But thanks for always checking in.” He turned back to his workbench.

“Sure thing,” I said.

The back door to his house was slightly ajar, the plastic bags visible on the kitchen table. I let myself in, deciding to wait for him here. I’d done this before, emptying his groceries. In the past, I’d even picked them up for him at the G&M.

He’d cleaned recently, everything shiny, the scent of dish soap lingering. Which explained the contents of his bags. In addition to the milk and cold cuts, bread and frozen meats—still waiting to be unloaded—there was a bag of fresh cleaning supplies: paper towels, a packet of sponges, rubbing alcohol, bleach.