Her Sister's Keeper. Julia Penney

      Kent was looking at her oddly. Perhaps he was thinking the letter was the final straw needed that day to break the back of her sanity.

      Without turning from the window, she said, “You mean to say that you live and work on the California coast and you’ve never heard of the green flash?”

      “Hey, I just work on the coast. I’m a mountain man, born and bred.”

      She finally turned toward him. “Few people have seen it and lots of folks don’t even believe it ever happens. But the story goes, on evenings when the conditions are right, as the sun sets behind the ocean its last rays, just for an instant, shine through the waves far out to sea. In that instant the sunlight flashes green across the sky. Ari and I spent a lot of nights down on the beach waiting to see it.”

      In the ensuing silence, Melanie was able to collect herself and, for the first time in those awful months since the aborted wedding, think clearly. It was as if a fog was lifting and she could look inside with brutal objectivity. She had spent the last six months foolishly blaming everyone but herself for her misery. She had blamed Mitch for his philandering, she had blamed Victor for introducing her to Mitch and most of all she had blamed Ari for ruining her life. Now she realized the only blame belonged on her shoulders. She had been faced with a choice: deal with what had happened and move on, or wallow in self-pity and melancholy, thereby punishing everyone around her.

      Her choice had cost her dearly. One by one her friends, all but Stephanie, had given up on her, leaving her to her own state of misery. Her work had suffered to the point that even Victor had warned her that her career was in real jeopardy. And the heaviest toll of all had been the erosion of her relationship with Ariel. Well, no more. The dreadful, endless day that had started with the desperate move of seeking help from an outside professional had somehow brought her to this point of realization: The only one who could help her was her. On the spot she made a series of promises to herself. No more excuses. No more self-pity. No more wallowing in the past.

      She straightened, squared her shoulders and turned to Kent. “Dr. Mattson, we have to find my sister as soon as possible.”

      SOMETHING IN Melanie’s voice made Kent look closely at her. Gone was the vulnerable patient who had bolted from his office. Gone, too, was the bewildered woman who had just suffered through the discovery of her best friend’s corpse, the official identification of the body and nearly two hours of police questioning.

      Instead, he had the distinct impression he was seeing the real Melanie Harris for the first time, and he marveled at the change. Kent would have predicted months, if not years of intensive therapy to put back together the broken woman he had met that morning. He raised an eyebrow.

      “Do you know where she was planning to go?”

      “No, I don’t, but at least we know she’s all right. This letter was dated two days ago. She knew she was going away and must have been planning to have Victor give me that letter,” Melanie said. “Victor might know where she’s gone.”

      “Who’s this Victor you keep mentioning?”

      “Victor Korchin. He owns this estate. He’s my boss, and a good friend.”

      “Why is that name so familiar?”

      “Victor’s a film director.”

      “Ah, yes. Korchin Studios.” Murphy had mentioned that name to him earlier. This time, Kent did curse aloud. “No doubt Victor has close ties to your sister, who happens to be a successful actress,” he prodded.

      Melanie hesitated. “Yes. Victor’s been like a father to her.”

      “But somehow you just forgot to mention to us this little connection between the two of them?”

      Melanie dropped her eyes from his accusing stare. “I’m sorry.”

      “I hope he knows something about your sister’s whereabouts, since she didn’t leave many clues in that letter and the only other person we might have questioned is dead. I’ll have a couple of detectives dispatched here immediately to question him and search this place properly, now that we’ve messed up any potential evidence.” He reached for the cell phone clipped to a holder on his hip, but before he could make his call, it rang.

      “Mattson here,” he said.

      Melanie could tell that Kent was on the receiving end of a call from his boss.

      “Hold on a sec,” Kent was saying as he fished a notepad out of his pocket and leaned over the desk, pen in hand. “Okay, what do you have?” He listened, scribbling furiously. “Got it. Thanks. And Murph? You might want to send a team out to Victor Korchin’s estate. Ariel Moore and her baby might have been living at the guest cottage here. We found a letter that she wrote two days ago to her sister, and she could still be somewhere on the premises. We haven’t approached the main house yet.” He gave her the address before ending the call and turning back to Melanie.

      “Do they have any leads?” she asked.

      “No, but they’ve made a positive ID of the other victim found earlier this morning.”

      “There was another victim? Who?”

      Kent paused. “What the hell. You’ll probably hear it on the evening news.” He flipped through the pages of his notepad. “Her name was Rachel Fisher, age thirty-seven, and she lived at…”

      “Sixty-five East Corinth, right on the beach,” Melanie said, her mouth going dry as her heart skipped several beats.

      Kent appeared stunned. “Don’t tell me you’re psychic.”

      Melanie shook her head, trying unsuccessfully to rid herself of an all-too-familiar feeling triggered by one of her earliest childhood memories. When she was a little girl and Ariel just a newborn, their parents had taken them to a family gathering at an aunt and uncle’s farm in the country. It had been a day of picnics, games, cousins and, to a young Melanie, seemingly endless fussing over “baby Ari.” By midafternoon she had grown resentful of the fawning over her new sister. Determined to recapture some of the attention, Melanie was drawn to the huge and ancient apple tree behind the barn. She knew Uncle Tukey loved red apples and set out to prove her worth by scaling the tree and fetching the biggest, reddest apple she could find. As it happened, the biggest, reddest apple was hanging from the tree’s uppermost branches. With scarcely a thought to her mother’s standing admonishment to remain in sight of the grown-ups at all times, she skipped around the back of the barn and clambered up the tree.

      Melanie had climbed higher and higher, until she was a full fifteen feet off the ground. She looked down only once, and that was enough. She was an accomplished tree climber, but this was certainly higher than she had ever gone before. Smiling in anticipation of the look of happy surprise on Uncle Tukey’s face when she presented him the trophy apple, she shinnied out onto the branch, which was swaying a bit under her weight. Clinging to the rough bark with one hand, she extended the other and, just as her fingers brushed the red fruit, the branch gave one last mighty sway and snapped.

      She remembered feeling not as if she were falling, rather as if she were suspended in midair and the ground was rushing up to meet her. Everything was pretty hazy after that. She must have screamed because there was a knot of adults and cousins around when she came to, all with the same concerned look on their faces. Melanie’s plan to divert their attention from Ariel had worked, but the price had been a costly one—a broken arm and a month-long grounding. All of that was a dim recollection, however. What had stayed with Melanie was that feeling of inertia while inevitable events rushed toward her. It was one that had followed her all her life and, as she looked at Kent, she felt it again for the second time that day.

      “Dr. Mattson, I know Rachel. I know her address because mine use to be Sixty-seven East Corinth. We were next-door neighbors until I moved