She cups her eyes against the glass of the kitchen window and stares intently down the driveway, her eyes turning every tree, every shrub, into Wilson returning, Isabelle in tow. She holds her head against the glass until it fogs. The glass is cold, and Ruth knows that outside is colder, and Isabelle has been out there for an hour almost, maybe even without a hat or gloves, or even a coat—to think of it again is beyond distressing. She just needs time, Ruth tells herself yet again tonight. Some time alone, and then she’ll come back, and she should have that time—but Ruth finds less and less comfort in that reasoning as the minutes pass. The possibilities that Isabelle has run away or tried to hurt herself, possibilities that initially seemed unlikely, have come to seem increasingly real, and there is nothing else in the kitchen to distract her—she has cleaned it inside out and emptied the fridge of rotten food—and goddammit! she thinks, she won’t just sit here waiting any longer in case her daughter should return. If she hasn’t returned by now, then Ruth is better off helping Wilson search.

Even through the thick front door, Ruth can feel the cold from outside in the foyer, and her fingers tremble as she buttons up her jacket. Isabelle’s coat had been beside hers, and it isn’t any longer, she notes with relief—at least she has her coat. But what if she’s been in an accident? Fallen through ice? Anything? She fumbles with the laces of her boot. Stupid, stupid, she thinks. Of course they should have told her about Maggie. What had they been thinking? Now Isabelle is not only devastated about the dog, but furious at her parents on top of that, and really, who knows what she might do? They should call the police, she thinks. Of course! They should have called the police right away!

“Ruth, dear.” She looks up. Wilson’s mother is standing above her. She puts her hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “Are you going out, too?”

“Yes!” Ruth says. She almost does not recognize her voice. “Shouldn’t I? Don’t you think? I should have right away. We both should have. Shit! Fuck!” She stands up.

“You said yourself she needs time.”

“But an hour! In this cold!”

“There are many places to hide here. There’s the barn, and the greenhouse, and the toolshed, and the pool house.”

Ruth blinks.

“Wilson knows these spots from experience, I can tell you that.”

She squeezes Ruth’s shoulders. Ruth takes a breath. Her mother-in-law is right. Isabelle is probably fine. Time, she tells herself. Time, time. It is Isabelle.

“Here,” Eleanor says. She opens the door of the closet behind them. “Here,” she says, handing Ruth a flashlight. “You go help him.”

“Isabelle!” Wilson turns around at the sound of Ruth’s voice. The beam of a flashlight scans the driveway just around the house, and though he can’t see her, he knows that Ruth is behind the light. “Isabelle!” The light bounces as Ruth makes her way through the snow. She is headed across the sweep of the lawn toward the river. “Isabelle!”