Because she never saw him again.

“I’d just feel much better if you went back to Alexandria and finished the buying trip,” Sarah said seriously, sitting down on the edge of Margo’s bed as she watched her friend repacking a suitcase she had unpacked only that morning. They were at Margo’s house, where Tucker had dropped them off less than an hour before.

“It’s after three; the afternoon is pretty much shot.” Margo was still protesting, but she was packing. Her bruised shoulder didn’t appear to be bothering her, though Sarah didn’t doubt it would ache tomorrow.

It bothered Sarah. It bothered her a lot. If Tucker was right, that so-called accident had been meant for her, and Margo had simply gotten in the way. Sarah didn’t want her to get in the way again.

“I know, but…well, humor me.”

Straightening abruptly, Margo directed a sharp look at her friend. “Have you seen something else? About me?”

Sarah shook her head. “No. Not about you, I swear.”

“About you, then?” When Sarah remained silent and avoided her friend’s gaze, Margo bent once again to her packing but went on, “You and Tucker were talking pretty intently when I came out of the restroom and back to our table; you two are planning something, aren’t you?”

Vaguely, Sarah said, “Nothing unusual about dinner plans.”

“Is that all it was? Fancy that. When he dropped us off here, he said he wouldn’t be long, so I assumed you had plans for the evening. After you crate me back to Alexandria, that is.”

“Ship. You need to finish the buying trip, you know that.”

“Uh-huh. And what do you need to finish? And don’t say dinner, because I’m not buying it. The story, I mean.”

Sarah began to protest, but instead said, “Look, Margo, with everything that’s happened lately, I just don’t want to worry about a friend if I don’t have to. So, you go to Alexandria, and finish the buying trip. I’ll be fine. Tucker seems determined to…to hang around, and the police are going to find out who burned down my house—and I’m okay.”

Frowning, Margo said bluntly, “You look like a stiff breeze would blow you away.”

Sarah shrugged, but she wasn’t happy at being told she looked that fragile. “I admit, things have been a strain. The last six months have been a strain. Hey, maybe I’ll close the shop for a few days and get away, take that vacation you’ve been after me to take for years now. Maybe I’ll go house hunting and find another fixer-upper instead of rebuilding. But I’ll be okay, Margo.”

Margo was silent for several minutes while she finished packing and closed her suitcase, then straightened, still frowning. “I know you’ve seen something. Something bad.”

Steadily, Sarah said, “Whatever I’ve seen, today taught me something very…hopeful. It taught me that I’m not always right. That there’s…that there may be…room to change what I see.” She didn’t believe that, but for Margo’s sake she tried to sound convincing.

“That’s what you and Tucker are planning to do, isn’t it? Change some future disaster you’ve seen.”

“How could we do that?”

“You tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” As she had explained to Tucker earlier, telling Margo of the bleak fate she had seen for herself would accomplish nothing except to alarm her friend and quite probably convince Margo that she should stick close and watch over Sarah.

Neither Sarah nor Tucker thought that would be a good idea; if being mistaken for Sarah had put Margo in danger today, there was always a chance it could happen again.

“So you’re not going to tell me what’s going on?”

Sarah hesitated, then said, “I have to learn to live with this, Margo. With what I’ve become.”

“Don’t say what as if you’d turned into a monster.” Margo’s voice was irritated.

“Okay. But I do have to learn to live with the changes in my life. I don’t know—yet—how I can do that, but I have to figure out a way. Tucker thinks he can help me. I think I should let him try. And that’s all.”

Margo looked as though she wanted to continue pushing but finally swung her suitcase off the bed with a sound that in anyone less feminine would have been a snort of disgust. “All right, all right. But I think you’re both full of cold cuts.”

“Baloney. Full of baloney.” Surprising herself, Sarah began to laugh. It felt as good as her earlier anger had felt.

Margo stared balefully at her for a moment, then joined in.

They had sobered considerably by the time they stood outside Margo’s neatly landscaped Queen Anne–style house. She put her suitcase in the backseat of her ten-year-old sedan, then hugged Sarah hard and said, “I don’t want to hear about the next disaster on the news, pal. Call me if anything happens. Or even if it doesn’t.”

“I will. And don’t worry—I’ll lock up before we leave.”

“Just remember—don’t hesitate to stay here if you get tired of the shop’s apartment. Or for any other reason.”

“Thanks. Have a good trip.”

“I will. And you kiss Tucker for me.” Margo winked, then got in her car and backed it out of the driveway.

Sarah watched her friend drive out of sight, and it was only when the dark car was gone that she became aware of the chill of the late September afternoon. Feeling abruptly alone and too vulnerable, she quickly went back up the walkway to the house, conscious of her heart suddenly pounding. As if a door had opened to allow a chill breeze into her mind, she knew there were eyes on her. Watching.

Waiting.

Sarah…

She hurried inside and turned to close the front door, and caught a glimpse of a tall man in a black leather jacket moving away between two houses across the street. Just a glimpse, and then he was gone.

Colder than before, Sarah closed and locked the door. But she didn’t feel safe. She didn’t feel safe at all.

“You want what?” Marc Westbrook’s black brows rose, and his gray eyes were suddenly uncomfortably searching.

“I’d like to borrow your gun. That forty-five you got from your father.” Tucker kept his voice casual and did his best to meet the level gaze of his childhood friend with total innocence.

Apparently, innocent wasn’t his best face.

“What’re you up to, Tucker?”

“Look, you know I won’t shoot myself in the foot; I can handle guns as well as you, if not better. I learned when I wrote the one where the mystery hinged on a marksman—”

“I know you can handle guns.” Marc leaned back in the leather chair behind his big, cluttered desk, his frown deepening. “I also know you make a damned good living and can easily afford to buy a gun if you want—or need—one. So why borrow mine?”

“I don’t need a gun to keep, just to…use for a while. To have for a while. A few days, maybe a couple of weeks. You know I don’t approve of guns in the house, so—”

“So why do you need one, even temporarily? Last I heard, you had a dandy security system and a damn big dog.”

“The security system is fine. The dog belonged to my sister and she came and claimed him when she got back from England.”

“Tucker, why a gun?”

“Hey, do I ask you nosy questions?”

“Frequently.” Marc smiled, but it was fleeting and left him looking unusually serious. “Out with it. Why do you need a gun? And why do I have this uneasy feeling that you came to me simply because you’re in a hurry and don’t want to sit out the waiting period?”

Tucker would have liked to confide in his friend. He thought a great deal of Marc. They had played cops and robbers as boys, had competed for and fought over girls as teenagers, and still managed to get together once a week or so even though both had demanding careers and Marc was now happily married and about to become a father. But Marc was a solidly—not to say rigidly—law-abiding man, and Tucker had no doubt that, once told of the situation, he would strongly disagree with the plan forming in his friend’s fertile and not always cautious mind.