“I’ll give up wine for now, but no one is going to stop me from eating garlic bread,” she joked. “I don’t care if I’m as big as a house by the time this baby comes.”

Lauren chuckled. “For me it was chocolate chip ice cream. I couldn’t get enough. More so with Leslie than with Leah.”

The reminder was bittersweet. What an insanely happy time that had been—her pregnancy with Leslie. Lance had been over the moon to become a father, and he had doted on Lauren and catered to her every whim.

As ecstatic as he had been to become a father, he had been equally devastated by the loss of their daughter. For both of them it had been like falling from the highest peak of the highest mountain and plunging into the deepest, darkest crevasse.

“I know about your missing daughter,” Anne admitted quietly. “Wendy mentioned it, but Vince and I followed the case in the news when it happened. I’m so sorry, Lauren. As a mother, I can’t even begin to imagine how terrible that must be.”

Lauren glanced away, uncomfortable. There was never any way of avoiding this conversation, and she never became more comfortable having it.

“But I do know what it is to be the victim of a violent crime,” Anne went on. “I know the sense of helplessness and anger that brings. I work with a victims’ group at the Thomas Center for Women—”

Lauren shook her head and raised a hand to stave off the rest. She wanted to get up and run away. “No, no. No, thank you. I don’t play well with others.”

“Fair enough,” Anne said. “I’m not trying to push. I just want you to know that if you need to talk or you need a connection in the system here, please don’t hesitate to call me. It’s what I do, it’s what I know.”

She fished a business card out of her purse and slid it across the table. “End of spiel. I promise. What kind of pizza do you like?”

Lauren picked up the card and looked at it to avoid having to make eye contact. Anne Leone: child psychologist, victim counselor, and court-appointed special advocate. Busy lady.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she murmured.

Anne shook her head, unfazed. “You’re not rude. You’re dealing with a nasty load of crap as best you can. Believe me, I get it.”

“Thank you for the offer.”

“You’re welcome. It stands,” Anne said as the waitress brought their drinks. “Try that wine. If you decide you want another, I’ll drive you home.”

Lauren laughed. “Most therapists don’t recommend self-medicating.”

Anne shrugged. “Two glasses of wine never killed anybody. And I’m not most therapists. You seem on edge. That’s not a fun place to be.”