So this was how Vera figured it out. I had never given her enough credit for her cleverness. The girl was far smarter than I ever was. I was following Vera’s trail of crumbs, but it wasn’t enough. I was missing a big piece. The piece that would show me where she had holed up. I sat at her desk, hands flat against the desk’s top, imagining myself as a brilliant, curious, budding genealogist. Wherever Vera went, it was somewhere familiar to her. Somewhere special.

Ding! If a realization had a sound, that would be it.

I knew exactly where Vera was. I jumped up, eager to tell Oliver… Crap, he was on his way to the police station to turn himself in! Where had I put my phone? I had to stop him before it was too late.

Running downstairs, I found my cell beside the sofa and my fingertips danced across the screen as I typed his cell phone number. Riiing—and then straight to voicemail. I couldn’t leave a message in case the cops listened to it later. I pulled up a new text and frantically typed as ALLCAPS words dashed across the bubble:

URGENT! SAY NOTHING!

I waited for the three dots to pass across the screen, showing that he’d read the message. Nothing. Deducting how long it would take me to get the kids out of bed to drive down to the station, I wondered if I’d have enough time. No, there was no way I’d make it there soon enough. I punched more letters in:

I KNOW WHERE VERA IS!

There was nothing to do but pray my message reached him in time. Somewhere along the way my faith had returned, and I hoped God was listening.

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Felicity

One arm held Sydney in her Strawberry Shortcake nightgown firmly against my hip, and the other pulled Eliot in his Marvel footie pajamas close to my side as we entered the police station. Sydney rested her head on my shoulder, her little finger sucks squeaking in my ear. Eliot yawned and shuffled sleepily behind me as I tried to keep him close. At this late hour the station was fairly empty, with only a few officers sitting at desks and a couple people loitering in the waiting area. I stretched up onto my toes to see if I could spot Oliver somewhere within.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” the receptionist asked, drilling me with her eyes.

My brain was stuck on pause. I wanted nothing more than to get my husband and my kids out of here.

“I’m here to speak with Detective Montgomery. My husband, Oliver, came in a little earlier and I’m trying to find him.”

The receptionist glanced down at her clipboard. “Was that”—her finger ran down a list of sign-in names—“Oliver Portman?”

“Yes! That’s him. Is he still here?”