Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz-buzz-buzz.
The insistent vibration so closely matched the one in Meredith Jamison’s head that she didn’t immediately recognize that the two things were separate.
“Ugh,” she groaned and rolled over on the couch.
The couch.
Why was she sleeping there? She had a perfectly comfortable mattress just one room away.
Right, she remembered. Wine.
The market research company where she temped had just landed a big client and she’d let herself be talked into celebrating. The third glass had led to a cab home, which led to the couch. Then the dull throb in her head. Thank God her tiny apartment in Bowerville, Washington—a small city outside of Seattle—didn’t have an east-facing window. Sunlight would’ve killed her.
“Ugh,” Meredith said again.
She worked to extract herself from sleep mode, but it still took her a few more seconds to clue in that the incessant buzzing wasn’t random. It was her phone, lodged somewhere between her uncooperative body and the lumpy cushions. She longed to block out the sound with a pillow. But there was no pillow. Because she wasn’t in her bed.
Dammit.
Meredith eased herself to a sitting position, shoved the lingering vestiges of her hangover to the back of her foggy mind and pushed a hand into the couch. Several forceful digs put the phone within reach. She closed her fingers on the noisy little device and yanked it out, shooting it a dirty look as it stopped buzzing before she could answer it.
Her irritation only lasted as long as it took to scroll to the missed call.
Tamara.
Seeing her sister’s name on the little screen made her heart hurt as much as her head. Meredith genuinely couldn’t recall the last time she’d spoken with her. Which was worse than being able to pinpoint an exact split in their close relationship. Not so long ago, they’d spoken every day. Then every week. Finally, that dissolved into a monthly lunch. And now...the rift seemed impossibly wide. So wide that Meredith hesitated to call her back.
Taking a minute to think about it, she closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for whatever lecture Tamara undoubtedly wanted to deliver. Though younger by two years, the woman was always brimming with advice. Or criticism thinly disguised as advice, as the case often happened to be.
Meredith had never been sure if that particular dynamic—advisor and advisee—was the result of her sister’s wildly successful marriage counseling program, or if it was the other way around. Either way, Tamara was never at a loss for telling Meredith what she ought to be doing. But they were still family, and as crazy as Tamara made her, Meredith couldn’t ignore her. With a sigh, she pressed her thumb onto the call-back button, then lifted the phone her ear. It rang three times, stopped abruptly, clicked a few times and went dead.
Meredith pulled her cell away from her face and stared at it. She wouldn’t have been all that surprised if Tamara sent her straight to voice mail, but the quick hang-up was a little much.
Besides which, she’s the one who called me.
Annoyed, Meredith hit redial. This time, it rang once before her sister’s breathy voice came through.
“Hello?”
“Tam—”
“Merri? Is that you?” The abrupt reply was barely louder than a whisper.
Even more than the hushed tone and the tremor in the question, the nickname worried Meredith. It was an old one. One that Tamara used when they were partners in crime, united against whatever trouble they were causing at any given moment in childhood. And she hadn’t used it for fifteen years or more. Hearing it now ate away at any irritation Meredith had felt just moments earlier.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Oh, thank God.” Her sister’s voice shook. “I need your help. I snuck the phone out, but—”
There was a click, and the line was silent again.
Help?
Worry tickled every part of Meredith’s body.
Had Tamara ever asked her for help in a desperate tone like that? She doubted it. Her sister was a type-A go-getter. If she did request assistance, it was because she wanted it, not needed it. And very likely, she thought she would be doing Meredith a favor by accepting whatever her sister offered.
Meredith shoved aside the thoughts and the questions, knowing the only way to get answers was to ask. She dialed Tamara’s number again.
Voice mail. Damn.
She tried one more time with the same result.
Double damn.
“What’s your deal, Tamara?” she said to the silent phone.
She’d automatically assumed that whatever Tamara needed had to do with her internet-based business. Everything did. The all-consuming world of Tamara’s business—Get Better with Billing—never ceased to amaze Meredith. And not in a good way. Tamara had legions of followers and a whole host of haters. Hate mail and stalker fans. A gated house and money to burn. Every part of the marriage-counseling business impacted every part of her existence. Which, as it so happened, often extended to Meredith. The second someone found out Tamara was her sister, nothing else mattered.
Tamara Billing, celebrity counselor.
Meredith Jamison, celebrity counselor’s sister.
It was clear who played the role of helper and who played the role of helpee.
Concern crept into her heart, and she tried to dismiss it. Wouldn’t her sister have called her sooner if something was wrong? Really wrong? And why was Tamara sneaking around with her own phone? The emotional distance between them wasn’t so great that Tamara would think she couldn’t reach out if she was in some kind of trouble. At least not as far as Meredith thought.
She cursed the fact that her sister had done away with her home phone in favor of her cell and scrolled reluctantly through her address book again until she found her brother-in-law’s name and office phone number. She’d do just about anything to avoid calling the man. The animosity was mutual, and likely—no, not just likely, definitely—the biggest source of discord in this sisterly relationship. But if anyone would know what was wrong with Tamara, it would be Nick. The one thing she couldn’t fault him for was his unwavering love for her sister.
With gritted teeth, Meredith dialed.
A crisp, feminine voice answered halfway through the first ring. “Johnson, Johnson and Levi.”
Meredith recognized the woman’s voice—Hettie had been Nick’s office assistant for years—but in an attempt to keep things impersonal, she replied in an equally professional tone. “Nicholas Billing, please.”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Billing isn’t currently with us.”
For a heartbeat, Meredith thought the woman was announcing Nick’s death. Then she clued in. “He doesn’t work there anymore?”
“Meredith? Is that you?”
She