His hair had been trimmed into a tidy cut, and no stubble shadowed his cheeks. His complexion was pale instead of ruddy, his eyes clear. He tilted his head down, as if to greet her. She wanted to go to him, felt compelled by some magnetic force. She took a step toward him without meaning to. "Come to me." The whisper seemed to come from beside her ear. She stumbled. "Miranda Blackwood!" Roswell called out, and a few people nearby noticed her. "Poor girl. Her father got murdered – that family truly is cursed," someone said to the person next to them, and Roswell called "Miranda!" again. She snapped out of the blind-need haze. No one else recognised her father. And why would they, when she barely did herself? They might gossip about him, but she doubted they ever bothered to look too closely. To them, this man was a clean-cut stranger in a suit. They probably thought he was a disappeared tourist. The man who had to be her father – but who didn't feel like him, somehow – curved his lips in the slowest smile she'd ever seen.
