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the same color, a little too long for her taste, and combed back, exposing angular features and a narrow forehead. She estimated him to be about forty.
    She was certain she had never met him before, but apparently he knew her. Or maybe he had caught the interview she had done for the CBS network a couple of weeks ago. That could be it. People she didn’t know now stopped her in the street, or at the farmers’ market where she shopped, to congratulate her on the award.
    Curious, and not wanting to offend a potential customer,
    even a peculiar one, she said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mr....?”
    With an amused expression, the man stuck the cigarette in his mouth. “Nice place you’ve got there,” he said, nodding toward the restaurant. “How much do you gross a night?” He talked with the cigarette clamped between his teeth. “Five grand? Ten?” The Zippo flared, and as he brought the orange flame to the tip of the cigarette, she saw his gaze drift to her purse. He chuckled again as if he knew exactly what was in it. And what she was thinking.
    Yet instinct told her he was not a robber. He was too chatty, too preoccupied with the shock value of his remarks to be truly frightening. That thought gave her a small burst of courage. “How much I make is none of your business.” As she spoke, she took her cell phone out of her purse. “So why don’t you do yourself a favor and get out of my way. Or would you rather I called the police?”
    Unfazed, the man took a deep drag of the cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly, blowing it toward her. Then, leaning against the SUV, he said, “Now, now, Abbie, is that any way to greet your big brother?”
    Three
    Abbie’s first impulse was to dial 911. But even as her finger stood poised over the keypad, she stopped. Something about the man—maybe the unconcerned way he kept looking at her—made her wonder if he could be telling the truth.
    She rejected the thought even though the first hint of doubt had begun to gnaw at the pit of her stomach. Ian McGregor had been fifteen the last time she had seen him, which would make him forty-three. He’d had dark curly hair and dark eyes that always lit up with a malevolent gleam—as they did now—when he was about to play a prank on someone.
    “That’s right.” Ian took another drag of his cigarette. “It’s me. Ian McGregor. In the flesh. I bet you didn’t think you’d ever lay eyes on me again, did you?”
    She didn’t know how to answer that question. When she and her mother had left California following the devastating fire at the McGregors’ house, Ian and his sister, Liz, had stayed in Palo Alto with their aunt Lucinda. Eight-year old Abbie, who had had to put up with Ian’s querulous disposition and Liz’s lofty indifference for two long years, had quickly put the teenagers out of her mind.
    “What’s the matter, Princess?” Ian asked, using the nickname he had given her years ago. ‘ ‘Cat got your tongue
    all of a sudden? Or are you too overcome with emotion to speak?”
    “How do I know you are who you claim to be?”
    Silently, he pulled out a wallet from his back pocket, opened it and held it in front of her, tilting it toward the light so she could read it. The expired driver’s license, made out to Ian McGregor, had a Toledo, Ohio, address, and the photograph resembled him enough to erase her last doubts. Now she knew why his earlier gesture had seemed so familiar. His father had also tapped his cigarette against his lighter in much the same way.
    With a flick of the wrist, he snapped his wallet shut. “I would have looked you up sooner, but your mother didn’t bother to leave a forwarding address.”
    ‘ ‘You knew perfectly well where to get hold of her if you had wanted to,” Abbie snapped. “And she did leave a forwarding address—with your aunt Lucinda.”
    Ian tucked the wallet back in his jeans pocket. “How is my dear stepmommy?”
    “How did you find me?”
    “I