Alice rises slowly and walks beside him to the kitchen. I told her not to mention the apples. He could grow angry that she went outside to get them. I told her to say that we made special muffins, with special ingredients.

I hear him getting a mug—the cupboard opening, the ceramic clanking as he pulls one out. I close my eyes and picture him pouring his coffee. The coffee in the coffee maker. The one with the white filter, which we filled with coffee and turned on for him so he would not have to wait.

I showed Alice how to do this as well. I have been a very, very good mommy today.

Moments later, Alice walks quickly back to my room. Sad Face is here and she holds back tears.

“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“He won’t eat the muffin. He said he’s not hungry. He said he had a very bad night and he just wants to drink his coffee and be left alone to make his phone calls.”

I sit on the floor and Alice sits as well. She is curious now that my face does not grow sad. Or disappointed.

We worked hard on those muffins.

“It’s okay,” I tell her.

Now she is confused. “It is?” she asks.

Then I ask her a question. “Is he drinking the coffee? The coffee that we made?”

She nods. “Yes. In the big cup.”

And I can’t hold back my smile.

Chapter Forty-four

Day eighteen

Reyes had been at the casino, parked in the back.

Jared Reyes. The boy from the kitchen. The boy who knew Daisy Hollander before he’d even stepped foot in Hastings.

Jared Reyes. The man who’d lied to her—about everything, it seemed.

The house on Abel Hill Lane—he’d known where the lock was, and then chained the gate closed. Edith Moore—he’d given her the answer to the question about Nic’s phone number, then failed to ask her about the small black letters on her mother’s purse and how she’d been able to see them. And he’d claimed not to know Daisy Hollander well, said he didn’t see a resemblance between her and Nic.

It all made sense now, why he’d lured Nic into bed. It was just as he’d said—how people try to replace the ones they loved with replicas.

* * *

His messages had not stopped all day and all night and she’d had a bad feeling—one she was now glad she’d heeded. It had made her stop before she’d pulled into the casino. It had made her look for his car.

She’d backed up, turned the car around, and started to drive. It had been late, but she’d needed to call her father.

“Daddy,” she’d said, her voice trembling. She hadn’t called him that for years. Not since she was a little girl.