The closet door was ajar, giving her a view of her clothes neatly lined up on hotel hangers.

“Mama?”

The sound was distinct. Clear.

Coming through the open French doors.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Kat cried, her voice cracking as she turned quickly-too quickly-toward the living area and fell against the night table, scraping her arm and cheek. The antique lamp tumbled to the carpet, its bulb shattering.

Don’t believe it, Kat! Don’t think she’s alive. Don’t you dare trust your foolish heart.

But she couldn’t stop that tiny sliver of hope from burrowing into her heart as she climbed to her feet again. The room spun. Using one hand, she braced herself on the wall and chairs as she staggered into the living area. She blinked hard. Tried vainly to focus. Nothing seemed disturbed. Nothing out of place. Flowers and a fruit basket sat upon a glass-topped table. Two Queen Anne chairs and a small love seat surrounded the antique fireplace where flames burned quietly.

No boogeyman lurked in the shadows.

Her daughter wasn’t waiting for her.

Of course not. Her imagination and paranoia were working overtime again. She was falling apart. Unraveling. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and cringed at the foggy image. Disheveled, wet hair, a gaunt body draped in a robe too large, no makeup on a face once beautiful and now ravaged by pain and guilt. Tears, unbidden, filled her eyes. She was losing her mind. Bit by bit.

Wiping her hand beneath her nose, she chided herself for being a fool. She, a woman who had always known what she’d wanted and gone after it. She, who had used her beauty and brains to snag the wealthiest man in Portland. She, who so recently had everything any woman could ever want. And now she was reduced to shards of harsh memories, sleepless nights, and long hours trying to dull the pain with prescriptions and alcohol.

Cinching the robe around her thin body, she felt a draft…the tiniest breath of wind against the back of her neck. She looked over her shoulder. Saw the curtains near the balcony doors move. But she’d locked the French doors just before her shower…right? She’d taken her drink onto the small verandah and stood overlooking the city, contemplating suicide, and finally discarding taking her life as too dramatic, too frightening, too self-defeating.