Detective Montgomery checked her little black notepad that she had on her every time I saw her. “In the woods on Marigold Street.”

Marigold Street. Why did that sound so familiar?

This couldn’t be so simple that she just happened upon my daughter’s phone. I didn’t believe in coincidences. There was always a connection.

“Does that street name mean something to you, Felicity?” Detective Montgomery was reading me.

I nodded. “I can’t think of why, but if it comes to me, I’ll let you know.”

“Hey, I get it. You want to think this is a clue linking to Vera, but in this case, there is nothing to lead us to believe the family knows of Vera’s whereabouts. The girl doesn’t go to Vera’s school, they run in completely different circles, and this girl is clearly still a child. There’s no connection, Felicity.”

She was right. What would a twelve-year-old have to do with my fifteen-year-old? I was so furious and sad and disappointed in myself for ever believing that this could be it, the glimmer of light at the end of that endlessly dark tunnel. It was snuffed out and I was still stuck in the dark.

Detective Montgomery, clutching her black notepad, got up and headed for the door.

“Detective, would it be possible for me to get the girl’s name and number? I think it would mean a lot to Oliver to at least say goodbye.”

“Sure, I think she would appreciate that. Oliver comforted her and helped her through her loss, from what it sounded like. In fact, she had asked if she’d ever hear from him again, so I’m sure a text would mean a lot.” The detective tore a paper from her pad and scribbled a name and number on it:

Tasha Briggs

I held myself together until after Detective Montgomery left. Then I let it all crush me. The defeat. The desperation. I alternated between screaming at the empty walls and sobbing into my sleeves until the kids got home from school. Then I held myself together again until after Oliver got home from work and the kids were in bed, alternating between pacing the bedroom floor and conjuring up a link between Tasha and Vera.

There was none. Just like there was no link between Vera and Marigold Street.

While Oliver brushed his teeth, I fell into bed, exhausted from too much thinking about Vera, Sydney, my marriage, the kiss, the dog crap all over the floor, the page from Vera’s journal, the voicemail threat. Every hope swept over me like fresh air I could breathe. Every closed door sucked the air right back out. I stared at the vaulted bedroom ceiling, tracing the opulent moldings from corner to corner.

Oliver walked to the window, focused on something beyond the glass. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?”