EPILOGUE

"So we're not going to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" I ask innocently.

He folds his arms across his chest. "We're going to talk about it."

"So talk," I say.

I meet his eyes and dare him to bring up the kiss I give him when he saves my life in Geneva. He holds my gaze for a moment, and I realize once more how strikingly blue his eyes are. They remind me a little of Annie's eyes.

He sighs and unfolds his arms, then reaches for his beer. He sips, then says, "Have you found another job yet?"

Apparently, we aren't going to talk about it. I feel a bit of wistfulness, but I push it away. This is no time to fantasize about romance.

"Not yet," I reply. "I'm sure I'll find one soon, though. Wealthy families are always looking for a reason to pay someone else to take care of their children."

"Oh, those horrible wealthy people. How dare they have money?"

I give him a dry look. "I don't hate wealth, Sean. Perhaps I'm not on the Forbes list, but as you're fond of pointing out, I have a tidy sum put away myself."

"Yet you hate money so much. No, don't roll your eyes, you know it's true."

"I don't hate money. I hate when people think that money allows them to get away with anything they want. I hate that the wealthy can do horrible things, then sweep it under the rug, and no one calls them to account for it."

"Except you."

I smile sweetly at him. "And now you."

He rolls his eyes, and I laugh. He gives me a quizzical look.

"What?"

"I've never heard you laugh before."

Heat climbs my cheeks, but I'm in no mood to dwell on where that might come from, so I ask, "Have you found anything?"

We've been in Boston for a week now. I've been recovering from my ordeal in Switzerland, but Sean has been working on Annie's case.

He grows serious. "Actually, I have."

The heat vanishes from my cheeks. I lean forward, flooded with excitement. "You have?"

Did He nods and pulls a picture from his pocket. He sets it on the table and slides it over to me.

The photograph is old, and the colors are faded. So, I suppose I can't be entirely sure that I'm seeing what I think I'm seeing.

But the woman in the photograph—glimpsed from the side with her head slightly turned away—looks very much like Annie.

"I got this from a friend of mine in Monterey, California. He recently considered purchasing an old hotel there. It appears that this woman arrived in Monterey just about thirty years ago and stayed for a few months at that hotel before moving on."

"Moving on where?"

"I don't know that yet," he replies. "But I know one thing: your sister was alive when she left Boston."

I look back down at the photograph. A million questions flood my mind, but the loudest thing in my head isn't a question but a statement. Or more properly, a declaration.

I will find you, Annie.