She remembered. No one else had noticed Jake Marcott driving into the parking lot. But she had. She’d never missed anything that had concerned Jake. “Stupid, stupid girl,” she murmured, spying the wistful look on her face in the photo. She’d had a crush on him forever even though she’d only been his “friend,” and that was largely through Bella. Lindsay was the one who’d seriously dated him.

To dispel the wave of nostalgia, she quickly flipped through a few more yellowing snapshots before she found the jacket for the photo she was searching for, the one taken of Jake and her at the dance. She opened the paper folder and it was empty.

No picture.

Her heart lurched.

The photo was missing. She searched through the loose pictures again, but it wasn’t there. Kristen’s brows drew into a frown. She so clearly remembered posing with Jake. They’d stood beneath an arbor of fake roses, their arms around each other, their heads turned toward the camera.

Was the picture that had been plastered over her windshield her own? Had someone taken the photo from its jacket? The box didn’t appear to be disturbed, but maybe she just couldn’t tell. When was the last time she’d seen the photo? When she’d moved these boxes up here fifteen years earlier? Or had she even looked then?

Or was it taken yesterday, while you were at work? The bathroom window was open…

“Hello?” Ross’s voice boomed from below. “Kris?”

Her first impulse was to run to him and throw herself into his arms. That was how unnerved she felt. Then she caught herself short and looked down at her old flannel pajamas. She hadn’t even brushed her teeth yet. Or combed her hair.

“Kris? You here?”

She hurried down the attic stairs and was on the bottom rung when he appeared at the end of the hall. Jesus, he looked good: hair still damp from a shower or the rain, faded denim shirt, battered leather jacket, not unlike the one he wore in college a lifetime ago. “Hey, you okay?” he asked, his intense gray eyes trained on her.

“Yeah, just…just getting ready.”

His gaze slid up the staircase. “In the attic?”

“Of course not. I…I had to get something for the reunion committee.”

“Up there?” he asked, motioning to the picture in her hand.

“Yeah. I was looking for my yearbook.”

“Find it?”

“I was just looking through the boxes when I heard you.” That really wasn’t much of a lie. “There’s a lot of stuff up there. Some of it’s yours.”

He wasn’t derailed. “Looks like you found something, though,” he said, hitching his chin toward the kitchen.

He was already walking down the short hallway and she followed, all the while knowing what was to come. Last night, cold and wet and freaked out, she’d dropped everything she’d been carrying onto the kitchen table. Her purse, laptop, and notes as well as the tape and marred picture she’d found in her car.

Great, she thought, just what she wanted to do, talk it all over with her soon-to-be ex. She asked, “Where’s Lissa?”

“I dropped her off at school.” He was already pouring two cups of coffee. Unerringly he found the fat-free milk in the fridge, poured a stream of the bluish liquid into her cup, then handed it to her. He drank his black. “She promised to come straight home after school. On the bus.” He glanced over at Kristen. “That’s a lie, of course. I think she spent half the night talking to that cretin of a boyfriend of hers.”

“Did you call him that to her face?”

“Nope.” He tested his coffee, looking at Kristen over the rim of his cup. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not really.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Not this morning. I really don’t have time for-”

“Make time.” He kicked out a chair and settled into it. “You can be late for work.”

“No, I really can’t.” She didn’t want to discuss any of this with him. At least not now.

“Then talk fast.” He jabbed a finger at the wet, red-slashed picture of Kristen and Jake. “Where’d you get this photo? At the reunion committee meeting?” He didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm in his voice. “Or was it one of your keepsakes?” Before she could answer, he glared at the cassette tape. “And what’s this?” Without asking he took the cassette tape, walked into the den, and slid it into the tape deck.

Kristen braced herself.

With a push of a button, the noises from the dance, the music, the talk, the laughter, and then the bone-chilling scream echoed through the house.

Standing barefoot in the kitchen, her cup of coffee untouched in her hands, her heart thudding as hard as it had the night before, she listened to the horror. Old memories surfaced. The nightmare spun again.

Ross listened, his expression turning more grim as the tape played, the lines near the corners of his mouth turning white as the horrible scream filled the house. When the sounds faded away, he flipped the tape out of the deck and turned, staring hard at her. Gone was any trace of humor. In its stead was a confused anger. “Okay, Kris. Time to level with me. What the hell is going on?”

Against her better judgment Kristen gave Ross the rundown, from the minute she’d driven into Ricardo’s parking lot to meeting old friends, Haylie’s scene, then the drive to St. Elizabeth’s, where she’d found the disturbing picture and blood-chilling tape in her car.

At first she was hesitant, but as she began explaining, she started talking faster and faster, watching his reaction move from anger to concern as he ignored his coffee.

Once she was finished, he shook his head. “What in God’s name were you thinking going back to the school, the maze in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t that someone would follow me or leave me a tape of the dance!” She leaned back in her chair, pushing her hair from her eyes. “What do you think it means?”

“Nothing good. You should go to the police.”

“And tell them what? That I was trespassing and that someone left a marked-up picture and cassette tape of the dance in my car? They’d say it was a prank-I mean, I think it is. Right?”

He didn’t smile. “I think it’s more than a prank. Anything else happen?”

She hesitated, thought of the opened bathroom window.

“Kris?”

“Okay, so yesterday, before the reunion, the bathroom window was left open a crack, but I never open it. I didn’t think it was that big a deal; nothing was missing.”

“But someone could have been here for hours, searching the place, looking for the picture.”

“That’s a pretty big gamble. Who knew I had it?”

“Exactly, who did know?”

She shrugged, reached for the photo, and turned it over. Though smudged, the name, phone number, and address of a local photographer were still legible. “Ron Phillips Studio in Beaverton,” she said.

“I remember that place.”

“Is it still open?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

“I think I’ll check it out. Nose around a little.” What would it hurt to do some digging? Try to locate the owner of the studio.

“I vote for the police. This could be dangerous, Kris,” Ross said, leaving his barely touched coffee on the table. “Did you look outside the window, check for footprints?”

“No. It was dark, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t think about it.”

“Maybe they’re still there.” He walked to the pantry, grabbed a flashlight, then headed to the front door and pulled it open, letting in a blast of cold, wet air.

“Don’t let Marmalade out-”

Too late. The cat, sensing a chance for escape, had slipped through the doorway. Ross didn’t seem to notice as he stepped outside.

Kristen finished her coffee and was putting her cup in the dishwasher when he returned, rain wetting his face and dappling the shoulders of his jacket. “Well?” she asked, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

“Inconclusive. It looks like someone might have walked back there, but that’s also near the spot where the cable comes into the house, and it looks like you had some work done.”