"Thank goodness you're back," Gabby says, her beautiful face marred with worry. "Didn't you get my messages?"
Messages? What messages?
I pull my phone out of blazer pocket. Since Gabby's first text earlier this afternoon, she's sent several more, and a few voice mails too. I was so distracted with everything that happened at the lighthouse that I must not have noticed my phone buzzing.
"I was worried," she says, a note of pleading in her voice. "Michael's been here almost two hours. We really need to talk."
"Yes, I know we do," I say, hoping the bitterness in my voice isn't too apparent.
Michael has gone back to searching through the kitchen cupboards, then digging through the pantry. I study him, amazed at how he literally hasn't aged a day in the last seven years.
He's just as I've
