“But do we have to? She didn’t look exactly like that picture. What if it wasn’t her?”
On a frustrated sigh, they retraced their steps to the T-bird, neither saying a word about their abject failure to gain concrete evidence that could save Anthony.
“Let’s just go home,” Maggie said as she fished out her keys
“Okay. We can—” Jo Ellen went silent and froze. “Maggie. Look.”
She followed her friend’s gaze and landed on…a completely different honey-blonde coming out of the building where her son-in-law worked. She wore a simple cream sundress and carried a tote bag, looking far more professional than the first girl.
“Couldthatbe Pamela?” Jo Ellen asked.
Of course it could be.
The woman dashed to a cab, climbed in, and off she went too fast for them to possibly follow.
“We could have been following the wrong girl,” Jo Ellen said as they pulled on their seatbelts to drive home. “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Maggie assured her. “These blonde Gen-whatevers all look alike. I want to get home before it’s dark. I’m exhausted.”
Six hours later, Maggie was still exhausted. She was sick of talking about the two girls, sick of worrying about her daughter’s marriage, and beyond sick of staying in a stranger’s house.
Still, she couldn’t sleep because she watched the street constantly and never saw Anthony’s car. Did that mean he hadn’t come home?
She didn’t know but wanted to.
At four in the morning, she lost the battle. She slipped into sneakers and stepped into the dark of night, doing a little of her own sleuthing without the resident expert. No code name, no disguises, no limping.
She had to know if that lingerie was making an appearance in Crista’s bedroom or if Anthony was MIA. She had to.
Crista’s house was pitch-black inside, but Maggie was determined. She walked up the driveway and peered into the window of the side door, which gave her a perfect view into the garage.
The empty garage.
Anthony hadn’t come home.
Tessa sat on the edge of Olive’s toddler bed, the small lamp on the dresser casting a circle of light over the bedding and the stuffed animals lined up like an audience. Olive—freshly bathed, already in pajamas—sat near the pillow, calm and watchful, her attention fixed on the open book in Tessa’s hands.
Ten days and she’d yet to say one word.
On the floor, Dusty leaned back against the low bed rail, close enough to see the pages. One arm rested loosely across his bent knee, the other reaching up now and then to point at a picture.
Tessa swallowed something tender in her throat, looked down at the cover ofGoodnight Moon,their final read for the night.
Of course, she had no idea if Olive had ever seen the book before, but she’d bought it at a used bookstore a few days earlier. The spine was worn, the corners soft from years of loving use by children whose names Tessa would never know. She traced her thumb along the edge for a moment before opening it.
Pajamas. Bedtime. A book.
By now, they’d developed a routine—Dusty cleaned up after dinner while Tessa gave Olive a bath, then they read her a book and said goodnight.
He seemed perfectly comfortable with Olive’s silence, certain that at some point she’d speak, always assuring Tessa that she wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Tessa so hoped he was right because with each passing day, she doubted herself more. Even silent, Olive was sweet and enchanting. She rarely cried. She slept all night. She wasn’t remotely potty-trained but seemed fine with the pull-up diapers. She did everything with precision and care, as if she didn’t trust the world around her.
And that just broke Tessa’s heart.
“Okay,” she said softly, more to herself than to Olive. “Ready?”
Olive didn’t respond, but her gaze followed as Tessa opened the book.
