“Marco’s is the best,” Wendy said. “They have every kind of topping, like sun-dried tomatoes and artichokes and broccoli—”

“Broccoli is gross,” Haley Leone declared, making a face.

“Can we, Mom?” Leah asked again.

It wasn’t like her to press an issue knowing her mother was against it—and certainly she was. Leah couldn’t remember the last time they’d done anything fun with other people. It was like they weren’t supposed to be allowed to have fun or to have friends because of what had happened to Leslie. It wasn’t fair.

Her mother frowned a little. “But you would have to clean up and change clothes and—”

“I can clean up in the lounge,” Leah said, pulling the saddle off the rack.

“I have an extra top with me,” Wendy piped in.

Everyone looked expectantly at Leah’s mother.

“Well . . . I didn’t manage to get to the market today anyway,” she said, caving in without a fight. Leah didn’t take time to question her good fortune. She headed to the tack room with the saddle and bridle, Wendy hot on her heels.

Chapter 5

5

“I can’t believe I said yes to this,” Lauren muttered.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Leah said, sulky. “I could just go with them.”

Lauren glanced over at her daughter in the passenger’s seat. “I’m supposed to send you off with people I have never met before just now, people I know nothing about?” she said with an unmistakable edge of anger in her voice.

“Anne’s husband used to work for the FBI.”

“Forgive me if that doesn’t impress me,” Lauren said, staring at the back of Anne Leone’s minivan as they made their way back to town. She paid no attention to the scenery—the horse farms, the lavender farm, the roadside vegetable stand that also sold miniature bonsai trees.

“Do you know how many FBI agents I’ve dealt with in the last four years?” she asked. “Did any of them bring your sister home? Did they do one thing to put Roland Ballencoa behind bars?”

Leah didn’t answer. She looked down at her hands in her lap. Finally she said, “You should have just said no.”

“You don’t want to go now?”

“I want to go.”

“You don’t want me to go.”

“Not if you’re just going to be pissed off the whole time.”

Lauren sighed. What was she supposed to say? Was she supposed to tell her daughter that she was on edge because she had imagined she’d seen Roland Ballencoa in Pavilions today? Or that she’d lost her mind and rammed her shopping cart into a total stranger? That she’d chased Ballencoa through the streets of Oak Knoll, or that she’d been pulled over by a cop who probably should have taken her driver’s license away from her?