After checking with the restaurant’s hostess just to make certain she hadn’t missed a tall blond woman coming in alone, Lake dug her BlackBerry from her purse and called the number Melanie had phoned from. Voice mail. She left a message saying that she understood Melanie might be running late and that she would continue to wait for her—that Melanie should just get to the restaurant whenever she could. But it was obvious what had happened: Melanie had developed cold feet and decided not to come. Lake ran her hands through her hair. She’d been banking so much on this meeting, believing that she was close to extricating herself from the horrible mess she was in. But she should have known from Melanie’s skittish tone that there was a chance she’d be a no-show. Lake decided to hang around for another twenty minutes just in case Melanie heard her message and changed her mind. But deep down she knew it was hopeless. “Would you like to see a menu?” It was the waitress, a pretty girl with an Australian accent.
