“He’s Bill now, new name, new leaf, new image. He’s a good guy, Mallory. But, hey, I gotta run.”

“Home to check on Dad?”

“Hint, hint,” Joy breathes.

Anne says, “In a bit. Don’t be a worrywart. I’m on top of this. Plus, you’re not here, your choice. So don’t criticize me, okay?”

She has a point there. But so do I. “I worry about you, Annie.”

“I’m fine, okay? Try trusting me for a change?” Billy—Bill—says something, but I can’t make it out, and then Anne says, “Talk soon. Bye,” and ends the call.

I stare at my phone, then at Joy. “Why is everyone hanging up on me tonight?”

“Maybe because you’re not going along, so now you know what it’s like for me,” she charges. “People want you to say what they want to hear, and when you don’t, they forget being nice.” Her brashness withers, face grows worried. “What if he does something? You know. Papa. With a gun.” Her green eyes have gone forest-dark.

“We don’t know that he has one.”

“Your guy said he did. Is he more reliable than Anne?”

“Most anyone is,” I remark and immediately feel guilt. “Anne means well. She just sees the world in a way that isn’t always realistic.”

“And the guy?”

“Jack was always honest.” Brutally so. Which is why he and I haven’t talked in twenty years. Our parting was brutally bad.

“So if Papa has a gun,” my daughter says, “there could be trouble. We need to go there, Mom.”

I go there all the time. Thundering waves are a soundtrack for every dream I have. The thought of physically going there, though, gives me heartburn.

Setting off for the kitchen, I call, “When? This is not a good time to travel.”

Joy is close behind. “Why not?”

“You have finals, for one thing, and for another, I have work.” I run the sink faucet hot. Dinner had been takeout of a veggie quiche, whose melt-over had burned onto the rim of the pie plate in which I’d heated it. I’d left it soaking, knowing it would be a hassle to clean, but I’m suddenly in the mood to scrub.

Joy leans into the counter, which means very close to me in our tiny kitchen. She is barely an inch shorter than my five-six, though her curls more than make up the difference. Those curls were damp when we settled in at the window, but air-drying, they’ve grown bigger by the minute. Seeming fragile beneath them, she says, “School finishes next week—”

“—and your internship starts right after that.”

“Scooping kitty litter in a cat café,” she drones.

I glance her way in surprise. “I thought you wanted that job.”

“I do, but it’s only a couple of hours a day, no pay—”