The brownies are yummy, as I knew they would be. Anne always knew her way around a kitchen, even when we were kids. And the vanilla ice cream she scoops on top, quickly melting on the brownie’s warmth? I have two helpings, I am that desperate to show Anne that I appreciate her efforts. But it isn’t until I tell her Joy and I will finish cleaning up, that she brightens. Tossing the dish towel aside with a flourish, she announces that she’s going out, tells us—me—not to wait up, and breezes out the back door.

Joy stares after her, before turning baffled eyes on me. “Did she even tell Papa she was leaving?”

Of course not. Doing that would have ruined the drama of her exit. Take care of everything here, her flourish said. Everything.

Feeling newly responsible, I go looking for my father. He is asleep in his chair, head back, mouth open. I watch him for a minute, seeing so much older a man than the one in my memories that I feel a great sadness.

But he needs to be in bed. “Daddy,” I whisper, gently shaking his arm.

He comes awake with a jolt, looks around, then straight at me with piercing, if faded blue eyes. He knows just where he is. I’m the only thing out of place. “Mallory?” he asks, curious.

He knows my face. And curious is better than disappointed. My heart leaps. “It is me.”

He considers that with a frown, studying me for so long I have to fight not to squirm like a frightened child. Then his eyes clear and sadden.

In a voice that is filled with regret, he says, “It was guilt.”

I wait for more. Terrified that he’ll leave it there, I gently coax, “What was?”

“Why she left. We had an agreement. Neither of us would tell.”

My heart beats faster. “Tell what?”

“What she did. Why she did it. We made a pact. I wouldn’t tell about her, if she didn’t tell about me. Many couples do that. They have to, to survive. When there are children involved, and reputations…” His gaze clouds and, like his voice, drifts away.

Agreement. Pact. Children. The words reverberate, fading in and out. He’s talking about Elizabeth, of course. Or is he? My rational mind has a second rational interpretation, but it’s so abhorrent that I chalk it up to fear. I need more. I feel more. There’s a memory here, but I can’t touch it.

“Dad,” I whisper. His eyes fly to mine. “Do you know where she went?”

He looks back at me. “Who?” he asks, as though just now joining the discussion.

And for several beats, I can’t answer. There’s something about that memory. Try as I might, though, I get nowhere. All that’s left is common sense in the here and now.

“Elizabeth,” I say.