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with.
    Turning away, she walked alone toward the waiting car.
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    It seemed like hours before the crowd began to thin and the house grew quiet again. Amanda had been well loved, and those who had loved her had gathered together in her home. Shannon said her last goodbye, her last thanks, accepted her last sympathy, then finally, finally, closed the door and was alone.
    Fatigue began to drag at Shannon as she wandered into her father’s office.
    Amanda had changed little here in the eleven months since her husband’s sudden death. The big old desk was no longer cluttered, but she had yet to dispose of his computer, the modem, the fax and other equipment he’d used as a broker and financial adviser. His toys, he’d called them, and his wife had kept them even when she’d been able to give away his suits, his shoes, his foolish ties.
    All the books remained on the shelves—tax planning, estate planning, accounting texts.
    Weary, Shannon sat in the big leather chair she’dgiven him herself for Father’s Day five years before. He’d loved it, she remembered, running a hand over the smooth burgundy leather. Big enough to hold a horse, he’d said, and had laughed and pulled her into his lap.
    She wished she could convince herself that she still felt him here. But she didn’t. She felt nothing. And that told her more than the requiem Mass, more than the cemetery, that she was alone. Really alone.
    There hadn’t been enough time for anything, Shannon thought dully. If she’d known before . . . She wasn’t sure which she meant, her mother’s illness or the lies. If she’d known, she thought again, training her mind on the illness. They might have tried other things, the alternative medicines, the vitamin concentrates, all the small and simple hopes she’d read of in the books on homeopathic medicine she’d collected. There hadn’t been time to give them a chance to work.
    There had been only a few weeks. Her mother had kept her illness from her, as she’d kept other things.
    She hadn’t shared them, Shannon thought as bitterness warred with grief. Not with her own daughter.
    So, the very last words she had spoken to her mother had been in anger and contempt. And she could never take them back.
    Fists clenched against an enemy she couldn’t see, she rose, turned away from the desk. She’d needed time, damn it. She’d needed time to try to understand, or at least learn to live with it.
    Now the tears came, hot and helpless. Because she knew, in her heart, that she wished her mother had died before she’d told her. And she hated herself for it.
    After the tears drained out of her, she knew she had to sleep. Mechanically she climbed the stairs, washed her hot cheeks with cool water, and lay, fully clothed, on the bed.
    She’d have to sell the house, she thought. And the furniture. There were papers to go through.
    She hadn’t told her mother she loved her.
    With that weighing on her heart, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
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    Afternoon naps always left Shannon groggy. She took them only when ill, and she was rarely ill. The house was quiet when she climbed out of bed again. A glance at the clock told her she’d slept less than an hour, but she was stiff and muddled despite the brevity.
    She would make coffee, she told herself, and then she would sit down and plan how best to handle all of her mother’s things, and the house she’d loved.
    The doorbell rang before she’d reached the base of the stairs. She could only pray it wasn’t some well-meaning neighbor come to offer help or company. She wanted neither at the moment.
    But it was a stranger at the door. The man was of medium height, with a slight pouch showing under his dark suit. His hair was graying, his eyes sharp. She had an odd and uncomfortable sensation when those eyes stayed focused on her face.
    â€œI’m looking for Amanda