“I’d love to, but do you think you can put up with me for five or six weeks?”

“That long, huh?” He chuckled again. “Are you planning on taking a leave of absence or-”

“I’m on leave already,” she told him. “I was wounded in the line of duty a few weeks ago.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m getting there.”

“Then hop on the next plane and come on out here.”

“Uncle Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“I want to ask a favor.”

“Sure thing. What do you need?”

“I would like to take a look at the files from the Jake Marcott murder case.”

Charlie Young let out a long, low whistle. “Why do you want to do a thing like that? That case is colder than the polar ice cap.”

“Let’s just say that all this talk about a high-school reunion has brought back a lot of memories. Besides, I’ll need something to occupy my time while I’m there.”

“You’re not still pining away over that Marcott boy, are you? I’m sure your dad never told you that we found out a few not-so-pleasant things about that kid.”

“No, I’m not still pining away over Jake,” she assured her dad’s old partner. “And when I get to Portland, I want you to tell me all about those not-so-pleasant things you found out about him.”

Portland, Oregon, June 2006

Nearly two weeks after Rachel spoke to Charlie Young, she arrived in Portland, the town where she had grown up. The City of Roses. Originally, she had thought she could just pick up and go, but she’d been wrong. First of all, her doctor had refused to allow her to travel until after her scheduled checkup, and then she’d had to okay leaving the state with her captain at the Huntsville Police Department. Odd how she’d done a complete turnaround about going back to Portland for the St. Lizzy’s reunion. When Aurora had called her back in March, she’d been totally uninterested. No way in hell. The past was better left there, along with all the memories, both good and bad.

Now, Aurora was dead.

An accident.

Or was it?

Haylie was dead, too.

A victim of a robbery gone bad.

Or was there more to her death than met the eye?

Those e-mails from Kristen and Lindsay had piqued Rachel’s curiosity, her law-enforcement training kicking in and making her ask a hundred and one unanswered questions about the deaths of two old friends. If she’d been smart, she’d have simply accepted both deaths for what they probably were, what the police in Portland and in New York City had accepted. But a niggling doubt in the back of her mind kept bothering her, kept eating away at her until she had known what she had to do. Go back to Portland, under the guise of a St. Lizzy’s alumna returning to the city for a long-overdue visit before the twenty-year class reunion.

Adding to the two untimely deaths of old classmates were the not-so-coincidental situations with Lindsay and Kristen. Lindsay had been attacked by an unknown assailant in her own apartment, and Kristen had been-and possibly still was being-stalked by some unknown person.

And what about those marred senior photographs? The dead women had each received one of the ruined invitations.

Rachel could not accept that two deaths, an attack, and a stalking, all of the victims her old friends, all four women connected to Jake Marcott and St. Lizzy’s, were mere coincidence. No, it didn’t wash. There was something wrong with the scenario, and her gut instincts told her that in some crazy way it had something to do with the reunion, with her group of friends from high school, and with Jake Marcott. He was the common denominator. A boy who had been loved and hated in equal measure. A boy who had been shot through the heart with an arrow-Cupid’s arrow-at their senior high Valentine’s Day dance.

She had arrived at PDX, Portland International Airport, and picked up her rental car yesterday. Then the twenty-minute drive through town had allowed her to see just how much had changed and yet how so many things remained the same. The Willamette River, which flows northward to the Columbia River, divided the city into east and west sides; the west side waterfront was the business section of town, with Northwest Twenty-third a trendy area with boutiques, shops, and restaurants. Where the Blitz brewery had existed, now the area was referred to as “The Pearl District” with trendy condos and lofts.

Uncle Charlie and Aunt Laraine now lived in a gorgeous new house in a new neighborhood. Uncle Charlie had been at work when she arrived, but Aunt Laraine had welcomed her with open arms and shown her to a guest bedroom and bath on the ground level.

“You’ll have your own key, of course,” Laraine had said. “And you can come and go as you please. There’s a side entrance and a kitchenette, too. We bought this place when Mother moved in with us.” Laraine had sighed heavily. “We lost Mother three years ago. But she lived a good life. She was eighty-nine.”

Despite how much she had wanted to go directly to Charlie’s office and get started with going through the old files on the Jake Marcott case, Rachel had spent the rest of the day with Laraine. But at dinner that evening-yesterday evening-she had brought up the subject with Charlie.

“Well, if you’re that determined, I suppose I don’t see what harm it’ll do for you to spend some time going through all the old records,” Charlie had said. “It’s been a cold case for nearly twenty years, so it’s not like you’re stepping on anybody’s toes. Plus it was your dad’s case, and you are a police officer.”

So, this morning she had awakened early, showered, and dressed in a pair of tan slacks, pale blue silk blouse and lightweight navy blazer, comfortable loafers, and an oversized shoulder bag. After breakfast with Charlie-coffee and an apple Danish-they headed for downtown.

Headquartered at 1111 SW Second Avenue, the Portland Police Bureau was larger than Huntsville’s, but the office space had a familiarity that put Rachel at ease. And it helped that several of the older officers had worked with her dad and they remembered her from the old days.

“I’m going to turn you over to one of our detectives in the Cold Case Homicide Unit,” Charlie told her. “He’ll authorize you to have access to any and all material from the Marcott case. Like you, he had a connection to Jake.”

“Oh?” Rachel wondered which one of her former acquaintances had gone into law enforcement as she had. One of the St. Lizzy’s girls? Or maybe a Western Catholic or Washington High grad?

Charlie led her to a cubicle in the back where a man sat, his head down as he peered over The Oregonian, a statewide newspaper.

Charlie cleared his throat. The man glanced up. Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. She stared into a set of golden brown eyes the color of rich, dark honey. He grinned. What a wickedly flirtatious grin.

The man stood to his full six-two height and held out his big hand. “Hello, Rachel. It’s been a long time.”

She studied his handsome face. Square jaw. Hawkish nose. High cheekbones. And a mane of thick wavy sun-kissed brown hair.

“Dean McMichaels?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell me you didn’t recognize me.”

“No…yes, I mean, not at first.”

“Well, since no introductions are necessary, I’ll turn her over to you, Dean.” Charlie put his arm around Rachel’s shoulders and gave her a paternal hug. “If you need anything, honey, just let me know.” He looked right at Dean. “You treat her right, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” Dean saluted Charlie, who chuckled, hugged Rachel again, and walked away, leaving her to face the boy who had made her life a living hell when they were kids.

“Have a seat.” Dean indicated the swivel chair at his desk.

Rachel sat. He propped his hip against his desk and faced her. “So, why do you want to put yourself through the misery of looking at all those old records about Jake’s murder?”