And if she doesn’t go out and doesn’t meet people, how would this affair Oliver’s so convinced about even begin? I picture my sister hunched over the blue light of a laptop, flirting with some guy on a dating site. It’s possible, I suppose. Anything’s possible.

I hesitate.

“I know how this sounds, but…you’re not worried, are you? I mean, of course you’re worried, but…worried she’s okay? I mean, that she’s not…” I trail off, not quite knowing what to say. Depressed? In danger of doing something bad?

I can’t see my sister doing anything to harm herself. I don’t think she would. But Abigail’s always been…emotional. Impulsive. I have no idea how she’s been recently; how her mood has been. I berate myself now for not knowing—for not even having a shot at knowing, because we almost never talk, and it’s a long time since I really asked her how she was.

What kind of a sister am I, I think.

What kind of a mother is she, a harsher voice answers.

Dennis swallows another swig of wine.

“I have a buddy in the police force. He said this kind of thing happens all the time; you wouldn’t believe how often. He says families always think something bad must have happened, but the truth is, you just don’t know the person as well as you thought you did. You don’t know that they’re capable of being that selfish.” He shakes his head, and I see for the first time how much anger there is behind his eyes.

“Since she’s an adult who went away of her own accord, she’s not a missing person. But my buddy said if we were worried, I could get a call list of all the hospitals in the surrounding area and try them, just to be sure.” He shrugs. “I tried, but I knew. There’s no sign of her.”

I nod, swallowing. I don’t feel relieved, though I guess I should.

Oliver glances at me and takes the list.

“Thanks,” he says.

Dennis nods, puts his wine glass back on the table.

“She just walked out that door and got in the car,” he says, voice dark. “With her son upstairs. Who does that?”

I feel the hairs prickle on my neck. Sam was upstairs when she left? That’s the part I really don’t understand. Say what you like about Abigail and what might or might not be in character for her—Sam’s the apple of her eye.

There’s a thump from the doorway. Silhouetted in the light from the hall, duffel bag at his feet, stands Sam. His gaze passes over his father and flickers to a halt between Oliver and me.

“I’m ready,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Four

Chapter Four