New Year’s Eve is in two days’ time, and Dennis is due to fly back on the first. I look at Mom, wondering if she’s expecting to have heard from Abigail by then; if she’s imagining Abigail sitting down for a New Year’s celebration with us.

“Sure,” I say tentatively. “What do you think, Sam?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Excellent,” Mom says, and I remind myself to tell Oliver we have plans. I’m not sure he’ll be exactly thrilled to spend New Year’s Eve with Mom, but he’ll get over it.

Mom’s just putting on some tea when my phone rings: Dennis.

I look up at Mom and Sam.

“I’ll just take this quickly.”

I go out into the hallway in case there’s anything Dennis has to say that shouldn’t be overhead. Outside, the sky is low and heavy now, the promised snow storm on its way.

“Gillian?” He must be on a Wi-Fi connection: his voice sounds unnervingly close, yet hollow, and I picture it bouncing down those hundreds and thousands of miles of fiber-optic cable.

“Dennis! Hi.”

“So I have an update,” he says. I can’t read his voice right now, but I can tell it’s not an update he’s happy about, and my heart jitters with anticipation.

“We know where she is,” he says

“You do?” I so want this to be good news. But the way he’s saying it, I don’t feel like it will be.

Dennis clears his throat.

“Apparently—” He pauses. “Well, apparently, Gillian, your sister has found her way to Miami.”

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

“Miami?” I picture Ocean Drive, fishbowl-size cocktails. “But we don’t know anyone in Miami,” I say stupidly.

The line hisses with a sharp exhale.

“I didn’t think you did,” Dennis says.

My brain is starting to tick. “Wait, how do you know?” I say. “Have you spoken to her? Did she call you?”

“No.” His voice is taut as a wire. “I know because a credit card transaction came through online.”

“Okay,” I say, my brain whirring. “Let’s…let’s not jump to conclusions.” Even though I can’t figure out what conclusions, exactly, those would be. “The main thing is she’s safe, right?” She’s not in the hospital. She didn’t step in front of a car or jump off a building.

“Well, get this,” Dennis says. “The credit card charge? It was at a florist’s store.”

Now I’m truly at sea.

Food, gas, a RiteAid pit stop, any of those would have made some sense. But a florist store in Miami?

Buying rose petals for the love-motel, I hear Oliver’s wry voice saying.

The momentary relief has passed, and like an ocean filling a hole in the sand, my brain rushes in with other feelings. Angrier ones.

“I…what do we do?” I say finally.