Chapter 1 — It's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine.

The bell jangled over the door of the dry cleaners as the last customer left for the day. Nancy flipped the switch to turn off the sign in the window that screamed "OPEN" in neon orange, and let her body slump over the counter, feeling every bit of her thirty-six years. The first and last two hours of the day were always the busiest for the small store, as people in their rush to work dropped off their laundry and then picked it up in their rush back home.

She stood up and stretched, debating the merits of a bottle of water over a cup of tea before closing out the sales for the day, and noticed a full bag of clean laundry and several plastic wrapped shirts still waiting to be claimed by their owner. Nancy frowned. Those belonged to that cop. Strange. He was usually very punctual to pick up his things. She squinted at the computer screen. Oh. She'd accidentally closed the tab for the text messages that went out letting customers know when their items were ready for pick up. She sighed and reopened it. There, right at the top, a message was highlighted, letting her know Frank Hardy had replied to the reminder as soon as the system sent it. She clicked on the reply.

Unable to leave work. Will pick up tomorrow.

So that was that. Nancy willed her brain not to wonder what had happened at work to keep him late. She was done with mysteries. Time to make herself a cup of tea, close out the sales, then finish up those last alterations for Mrs. Carroway. "Hey, George, you can clock out for the day," she called into the back room where the steam press was hissing rhythmically.

Ducking into the tiny break room, Nancy flicked on the electric tea kettle and pulled a hair band off her wrist, pulling her shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair back into a ponytail. No self-pity. She'd moved away from River Heights to New York to start over. To forget.

"Okay, Boss, I'm out. Don't forget to lock up behind me. This neighborhood is not the high rent district." George Fayne, her part-time, college-aged help, grinned at her from the doorway, blowing a wisp of short brown hair out of her eyes.

Smart aleck, Nancy thought, rolling her eyes at the girl. "George, I'm not an old lady or an idiot," she said and then proceeded to stick her tongue out at her.

George laughed. "Gran told me to keep an eye on you."

"Well, you and your grandmother can just mind your own business. I'm perfectly fine, thank you very much," she said, her voice sounding more tired than sharp.

A tapered eyebrow arched upward. "So should I take back the meals she packaged up for you for the weekend and tell her you want her to back off?"

Nancy huffed. "Well played. I know you both mean well. Don't pay any attention to me, I'm just tired."

"You should hire someone to help in the daytime," George said scoldingly, tilting her head and frowning at Nancy like she was a stubborn child.

"No, I like to stay busy," she said, shaking her head and ignoring the fact that she probably was being stubborn about it. But it was better if she was busy. Busy kept her from remembering. She'd been insanely, perpetually busy for the last five years and it was working out just fine.

"Whatever you say, Boss," George said with a shrug. "Just don't stay too late."

Nancy shooed her out of the store and made a face at her through the glass as George turned and watched to make sure the door was locked. She was a good kid, George, hard working and a good sense of humor, probably essential for a spunky girl who'd been named for some unfathomable reason after her grandfather.

Retrieving her mug of tea, Nancy settled back at the computer and turned up the volume on the music playing through the small speaker on the counter. Thankfully today had gone smoothly and she reconciled the credit card receipts with the charges in her system quickly. Taking the last swig of tea, she moved to the back room, perching on a tall stool at her work table. Her father's housekeeper, Hannah, had taught her to sew when she was a little girl, not that Nancy had ever thought back then that she'd be using the skill to maintain her place of employment. But she was thankful for it now as she deftly pulled out seams and lowered the hems of several pairs of slacks that a woman had dropped off for her growing teenage boy.

Unfortunately, while the sewing kept her hands occupied, her mind was free to roam back over painful and well-worn paths. Her eyes were drawn over and over again to the empty place on her left hand. Today was the anniversary of the day Ned had proposed. She'd taken the ring off three years ago when she decided to move here, but every once in a while she was struck by how odd her hand looked without it. When Ned had placed it on her finger she had assumed it was there to stay, a new permanent part of her anatomy. But one horrific night had changed all that.

Smoothing out the cuff of the pant leg, she briefly let her memory pull up an image of Ned laughing, probably at something she'd said in all earnestness. He had found her ridiculous at first, the high school girl determined to be the youngest licensed private detective in Chicago, never mind River Heights. She even registered for the licensing exam as soon as she'd graduated… and failed miserably. Ned, clerking for her father's law firm the summer between his undergrad studies and law school, had volunteered to help her study. Somehow over the next few months she reined in her more outlandish ideas over every potential mystery that popped up in town, and Ned stopped laughing at her and started taking her seriously. She got that PI license, started up her own little business, and they'd gotten married as soon as Ned graduated from law school, embarking on their life of wedded bliss. At least, it was as blissful as it could be with Ned working all hours as he began that trek up the corporate ladder at a Chicago firm, and her running all over the city finding lost dogs, wayward spouses, and the occasional angst-ridden teenager. They had just started dancing around the possibility of having children. If only she'd turned down that last case…

"We should have lived happily ever after," she sighed to herself, clipping off the last loose thread and piling the slacks to be cleaned and pressed tomorrow.

The crash by the back door startled her from her memories and she squinted at the clock on the far wall. After nine o'clock. She should have left ages ago. And should have eaten ages ago, her stomach reminded her with a growl. She slid off the stool, yawning and stretching. Time to head home.

She grabbed her purse and Gran's bag of single-packaged dinners from the break room, and turned off the lights. Keys in hand, she suddenly remembered the crash that had alerted her to the time. It was probably just a cat in the dumpster, but maybe she'd better check. Dumping purse and bag on the counter, she had her hand on the back door handle when she remembered George's warning. The neighborhood did have the occasional muggings and drug deals. Maybe she shouldn't check the alley at night, just ignore the noise.

Nancy gave herself a shake. She was not some feeble female that couldn't look after herself. That PI license had been accompanied by a handgun license for pity's sake. She maybe hadn't made use of either over the last few years, but she was hardly decrepit or faint hearted.

"You are not a victim," she muttered. Wasn't that what the counselor kept trying to tell her. Of course, she hadn't stuck around for too many sessions. What did he know, anyway? He hadn't had his life ripped away in a matter of seconds, gone in a crush of twisted metal while that teenager had stumbled away too wasted to even know what had happened.

She pulled out her phone, turned on the flashlight, and dialed 911, ready to hit the call button if necessary. But it was probably just a cat. Maybe a homeless guy looking for food or something to sell. Nothing to worry about, Nancy told herself sternly, as she slowly turned the deadbolt on the door and then flung it open. "Who's there?" she called, sweeping the flashlight over the alley. But no one answered. Because hanging halfway out of her dumpster was the now silent cause of the crash. Not a cat. Not a dumpster diver. A girl. A clearly dead girl. Eyes wide and still. Blood splattered across her neck from where her throat had been slit. Nancy swallowed hard, forcing away the memory of her husband's eyes, wide and still just like that. Her hand shaking, she hit dial on the phone.