She felt eyes on her, pushed down, strongly down, nerves that wanted to bubble up. Part of the price, she remembered. Pay it or look for another line of work.

She recognized McCoy and, since she’d done an internet search, Jennifer Grogan, the writer. They sat beside each other at the four-top. So, she understood, they would face her and her agent.

McCoy stood when he spotted her. He hadn’t yet hit forty, had a scraggly mop of wiry hair he covered with a Dodgers cap when he worked. Grogan peered at Cate through the square lenses of serious black-framed glasses.

“Caitlyn.” He gave her a Hollywood peck on the cheek. “It’s great to see you in person. Jenny, meet our Olive.”

“I know your step-grandmother.”

“She told me. She said she likes that you write women of layers and substance.”

“Somebody’s got to.”

“Have a seat, Cate.” McCoy pulled out her chair himself. “We’ve got a bottle of San Pellegrino going, but you can take a look at the water menu.”

“No, that’s perfect, thanks.” She set her purse in her lap, waited until the server filled her glass.

“We’re waiting for one more, but let’s have some squash blossoms for the table. They’re amazing,” McCoy told Cate. “Stuffed with goat cheese.”

“Save me from vegetarians,” Jenny said. “At least bring some bread.”

“Right away.”

She gave Cate a sour look. “Or are you a tofu eater, too?”

“Not if I know about it first. I want to thank you, Mr. McCoy—”

“Steve.”

“I want to thank you both for thinking of me for Olive. She’s a terrific character.”

“You’ll have to work with a voice coach.” Jenny snatched up a tiny sourdough roll the minute the basket hit the table. “The accent—and it can’t be so hick-thick you need a hatchet to cut it—is essential to her character, and part of her conflict and culture shock. It has to be right.”

Cate nodded, took a sip of water. And put Georgia into her voice. “I’d be more than happy to work with a voice coach if I take the part. Her accent, her speech patterns, her vocal rhythms are part of what, initially at least, makes her feel isolated. Or that was my read of her.”

Jenny broke the little roll in two, popped half into her mouth. “Okay, that’s good. Damn it. What am I going to bitch about now?”

“You’ll find something. Here’s Joel.”

“Sorry, got hung up as usual.” Joel Mitchell, short and round, kissed the top of Cate’s head like an uncle. He dropped down in his golf shirt—as red as Cate’s sandals.

He had twin fluffs of white hair divided by a wide swath of pink scalp, thick-lensed shaded glasses, and a reputation for squeezing every last drop out of a project for his client.

“So.” He glugged down some water. “Isn’t she all that and a chicken taco? Damn, girl, you’re the spitting image of Livvy.”

“Grandpa said that just the other day.”

“Growing up on me. How about we order some real food—because I see Steve’s pushing his squash again. They make a hell of a burger here—a real one. Let’s get some menus, then we can talk some turkey.”

McCoy signaled the waiter.

Cate saw his hand freeze in midair, his eyes widen.

Before she could turn, see what had put the shock on his face, she heard her name.

“Caitlyn! Oh my God, my baby!”

The hands were on her, dragging her out of the chair, into a locked-arm embrace. She knew the voice, knew the scent.

Struggled.

“Oh, so grown-up! So beautiful.” Lips skimmed over her face, her hair as Charlotte wept. “Forgive me, oh, my darling, forgive me.”

“Get off me! Get away. Get her off me!”

Air backed up in her lungs, weight dropped onto her chest like stones. The arms around her became vises squeezing, squeezing life, identity, purpose out of her.

Seconds, it took only seconds to throw her back into a locked room with windows nailed shut.

Fighting for air, Cate shoved, broke free.

Saw Charlotte, eyes streaming, lips quivering, lift a hand to her cheek as if struck. “I deserved that. I did. But I beg you.”

She dropped to her knees, pressed her palms together as if in prayer. “Forgive me.”

“Get the hell away from her.” Joel, already on his feet, surged forward.

In the chaos of sobbing, shouting, voices buzzing, Cate ran.

She ran as she had that night in the woods, away, just away. Anywhere else. At intersections, she bolted through, blind to the oncoming cars, deaf to the blasting horns, squealing tires.

Away, just away, the prey fleeing the hunter.

Ears ringing, heart tearing, she ran until her legs gave out.

Shaking, drenched in panic sweat, she pressed against a building. Slowly, the red cloud over her vision thinned, the sounds outside the screaming in her head eked through.

Cars, sun sparking off chrome, someone’s car stereo blasting hip-hop, the clip of heels on pavement as a woman walked out of a shop carrying a pair of glossy shopping bags.

Lost, she realized. Like in the woods, but here everything was too hot, too bright. No sound of the sea, just the constant whoosh of traffic.

She’d left her purse—her phone—she had nothing.

She had Cate, she reminded herself, and closed her eyes a moment. Gathering herself, she walked on legs she barely felt to the door of the shop.

Inside the cool, the fragrant, she saw two women—one young, stick thin in candy pink, the other older, trim in cropped pants, a crisp white shirt.

The younger one turned, frowned as she gave Cate a quick once-over. “Excuse me just one moment.”

Disapproval with a dose of disgust slapped out as she strode to Cate. “If you’re looking for a public washroom, try Starbucks.”

“I—I need to call someone. Can I use your phone?”

“No. You need to leave. I have a client.”

“I lost my purse, my phone. I—”

“You need to leave. Now.”

“What’s wrong with you?” The older woman walked over, nudged the younger one aside. “Go get this girl some water. What happened, honey?”

“Ms. Langston—”

The older woman whipped her head around, bored holes into the younger. “I said get some water.” Putting an arm around Cate, she led her to a chair. “You sit down, catch your breath.”

Another woman came out of the back, pulled up short, then hurried forward. “What’s happened?”

“This girl needs some help, Randi. I just sent that heartless, pinched-mouthed clerk you hired back to get her some water.”

“Give me a minute.”

Ms. Langston took Cate’s hand, gave it a little squeeze. “Do you want the police?”

“No, no, I dropped my purse—my phone.”

“That’s all right, you can use my phone. What’s your name?”

“Cate. Caitlyn Sullivan.”

“I’m Gloria,” she began as she hunted through a huge Prada hobo bag for her phone. Then her eyes narrowed on Cate’s face. “Are you Aidan Sullivan’s daughter?”

“Yes.”