It was a relief to disappear into the rows of books, like losing herself in a forest. If only she could stay there and continue to hide. But the truth was out now, which meant hiding was no longer an option. Unless she decided to pick up and run again—but to where and for how long? For all Wade’s protests, he could at that very moment be spilling his guts to one of his reporter buddies, and come morning, the press would be back at her heels.

But even worse than the prospect of a renewed media frenzy was the memory of Missy’s face as she stood there holding her salad and slowly connecting the dots. Even now, she and Dar were sitting at Taco Loco, sipping margaritas and digesting the fact that they’d been lied to.

She had a lot of explaining to do.

Taco Loco was in full swing when Christy-Lynn arrived. Missy and Dar were already seated, unsmiling as they sipped their drinks, and she found herself grateful for the boisterous Saturday night crowd. Less chance of a scene—she hoped.

She had rehearsed several versions of an apology on the way over but had come up empty. There was simply no way to pretty up what she’d done.

“I can imagine what you must think of me,” she began gravely. “But I never meant to lie to you. When I first came to Sweetwater, I was . . . well, I don’t know what I was, really, except exhausted. Things were so crazy after Stephen died. And then the pictures leaked, and everyone wanted to know who the woman was—including the reporters. I became a prisoner in my home. And then one day I caught a reporter outside my bedroom window, pointing his camera at me while I stood there in my underwear. That was it. I packed a bag and snuck out of the house. I drove until I couldn’t drive anymore—and ended up here.”

There was a long stretch of silence when she finished. Missy was shaking her head, staring into her nearly empty margarita glass, while Dar fiddled with the crystal pendant she was never without. Christy-Lynn held her breath, waiting.

It was Dar who finally spoke. “It must have been awful. To be trapped like that. Spied on in your own home. No wonder you left. You must have been beside yourself.”

Christy-Lynn felt herself relax but was determined to tell the rest of the story. “It was like having a target on my back. My picture was on the news and in all the tabloids, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and the house was surrounded. I knew they’d never leave me alone, that no matter where I went they’d hunt me down. Which is why I was so relieved to find Sweetwater. It seemed like the perfect place to hide. I used my maiden name because I was afraid they’d find me. I told myself it was okay since I wasn’t staying. And then one thing led to another, and I didn’t want to leave. I should have told you sooner. I wanted to. Instead, I let the lie get bigger.”

“Bastards,” Missy muttered as she banged down her glass. “How dare they put you, or anyone, through that.”

Christy-Lynn blinked at her. “You’re not . . . mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” Missy assured her. “But not for the reasons you think. I’m upset that you didn’t think you could trust us with the truth. But I guess I get why you were scared.”

“I’m sorry. Truly. Today when you came to the shop—”

“You were white as a sheet. I thought you were just tired, and then I saw the guy standing there holding that book, babbling on about your husband, and I didn’t know what to think. I hope you don’t mind, but I did a little snooping online after I left the store. I couldn’t believe it. Those hideous tabloid pictures. And then to be hounded like that.” She scowled as she reached for her glass. “Bastards.”

“Can’t you sue them or something?” Dar asked with uncharacteristic heat. “I don’t care how famous your husband was or who was in his car when it went off that bridge. There are just some things that aren’t anybody else’s business. Like you in your underwear, for Pete’s sake. They didn’t print that, did they?”

“I don’t think so. At least I never saw it. The morgue pictures were bad enough.”

Missy was shaking her head again. “How on earth did they get hold of them? Shouldn’t they have been . . . I don’t know . . . confidential or something? I mean, for pity’s sake, she wasn’t wearing a shirt. Who wants to see that?”

Dar pulled a face as she reached for a chip. “Are you kidding? People can’t get enough of that kind of trash. They don’t even care if it’s true as long as it’s juicy.”

Missy sat with arms folded, chin jutting peevishly. “Trash is exactly what it is.”

Christy-Lynn stared at them in disbelief. “You’re both being so nice. I thought you’d be furious. Not that you wouldn’t be justified. I lied to you.”

Missy gave her hand a pat. “Of course you did, honey. You were doing what you needed to. And who’s to say we wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing if we’d been in your shoes?”

Christy-Lynn’s throat tightened. “I don’t know what to say.”

Missy shot her a wink. “Say you see Marco around here somewhere. We’re supposed to be celebrating, and my glass is empty.”

The mood lightened considerably when the appetizers and a fresh round of drinks arrived at the table. The banter had nearly returned to normal when Missy looked up from her nachos, blotting her mouth with exaggerated daintiness. “All right, I think it’s time one of us asked what we’ve both been wondering since learning the truth about your dearly departed.”