LITMIR.BIZ

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      Swept by a wave of nostalgia, Brynn swallows hard over a lump in her throat. She longs for worn oak floors, oval braided rugs, chintz slipcovers. The savory aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, and onions frying in olive oil. The radio in the background, sock-hop standards and sixties’ anthems of the local oldies station. Clutter, and laundry, and people coming and going…

      Home.

      But the seaside blue-collar household on Cape Cod is two hundred miles and a world away from the campus nestled in the Berkshires, the mountains of western Massachusetts.

      And there’s no going back—not the way Brynn yearns to do.

      Before her thoughts can meander down the fateful path that ultimately led to Stonebridge College, she’s dragged back to the present.

      Tildy, apparently deciding their oath needs something more to make it official, solemnly declares, “So help me God.”

      “So help me God,” the others obediently intone.

      Not Brynn. She just moves her lips, refusing to invoke God. Not under these circumstances.

      “Now we’ll sing the sorority song,” Tildy commands, lifting her hand to push her blonde hair back from her face. Her sorority bracelet, a silver rope of clasped rosebuds, glints in the moonlight. They’re all wearing them—including Rachel—and each is personalized with dangling silver initial charms.

      Brynn manages to join the others in singing. The ingrained lyrics she secretly always considered embarrassingly hokey now seem bittersweet as she forces them past the lump in her throat.

      We’ll always remember

      That fateful September

      We’ll never forget

      The new sisters we met

      We’ll face tomorrow together

      In all kinds of weather

      ZDK girls, now side by side

      May travel far and wide

      But wherever we roam

      Sweet ZDK will be our home.

      The sisters’ voices give way to the hushed nocturnal woodland descant: chirping crickets, a rushing creek, and the September breeze that gently rustles the maple boughs high above the clearing.

      Then another sound reaches Brynn’s ears…

      The faint, yet resonant crack of a branch splintering underfoot.

      She clutches her friend Fiona’s arm, asking in a high-pitched whisper, “Did anyone hear that?”

      “Hear what?” Tildy’s tone is sharp.

      “Shhh!” Standing absolutely still, afraid to breathe, Brynn listens intently.

      They all do.

      There is nothing.

      Nothing but the crickets, the creek, a gust stirring the leaves overhead. Just like before.

      After a long, tense moment, Cassie says, “I don’t hear anything, Brynn.”

      Brynn doesn’t either. Not now.

      But someone is there.

      She can feel it.

      Someone is lurking in the shadows among the trees, listening.

      Perhaps even watching…

      And recognizing.

PART I

      CHAPTER 1

      September, present day

       Cedar Crest, Massachusetts

      It happened ten years ago this week, just after Labor Day, and just a few miles from here.

      In fact, if one knows where to look, one can pinpoint up in the greenish-golden Berkshires backdrop, beyond the row of nineteenth-century rooftops, precisely the spot where it happened.

      And I know where to look…because I was there. I know exactly what really happened that night, and it’s time that—

      “Oh, excuse me!” The elderly woman is apologetic, having just rounded the corner from Second Street. “I didn’t mean to bump into you…I’m so sorry.”

      She looks so familiar…

      It takes just a split second for the memory to surface. Right, she used to be a cashier at the little deli down the block. The place that always had hazelnut decaf. Yes, and she was always so chatty.

      What was her name? Mary? Molly?

      What is she doing out at this hour? The sky is still dark in the west, and none of the businesses along Main Street are open yet.

      Don’t panic. She probably doesn’t even recognize you. Just smile and say something casual…

      “Oh, that’s all right, ma’am.”

      Good. Now turn your back. Slowly, so that you don’t draw any more attention to yourself.

      Good. Now get the heck out of here, before—

      “Excuse me!”

      Dammit! The old lady again.

      What can she possibly want now?

      “You must have dropped this when I bumped you.” With a gnarled, blue-veined hand, she proffers a white envelope.

      “Oh…thank you.”

      Could she have glanced at the address on the front before she handed it over? If she did, could she have recognized the recipient’s name?

      “It’s going to be a nice day today.” She gestures at the glow in the eastern sky, above the mountain peaks. “We needed that rain, though, at this time of year.”

      “Mmm-hmm.” Just nod. Be polite.

      “Well…Enjoy the day.”

      “I will.” But not as much as I’ll enjoy tomorrow. “You, too.”

      With a cheerful wave, the woman turns and makes her way down the block.

      The post office is just a few doors in the opposite direction. These last two envelopes—the ones to be delivered right here in town—must go out in this morning’s mail.

      It’s important that they be mailed from here, so that the recipients will realize that the sender is nearby.

      The timing is just as crucial. All four cards need to arrive at their destination tomorrow, on the anniversary.

      The others went out first thing yesterday morning—one to Boston, one to Connecticut. That excursion was uneventful. It was raining, and there were no witnesses…

      Unlike today.

      Now isn’t the time to start taking chances. Not after months of painstakingly laying the groundwork. Not when it’s finally about to begin at last.

      Millie.

      That’s her name.

      The post office can wait. The first pickup won’t be for at least another hour.

      What a shame, Millie.

      What a shame you weren’t more careful.

      “Whoa, hang on there, kiddo!” Brynn Saddler swoops toward her barefoot toddler as he dashes across the front lawn toward the street.

      “Hey, good catch, Mom!” Arnie, the mail carrier, calls from the sidewalk a few doors down leafy Tamarack Lane as Brynn lifts her squirming son into her arms.

      “I’m getting enough practice…third time he’s made a run for it in the last five minutes!” Laughing, Brynn carries Jeremy back to the steps of their Craftsman bungalow, where they’ve been waiting for the school bus in the late summer sunshine.

      This

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