“No,” Lauren said. “I’m always irritated when people tell me they’re sorry. What do they have to be sorry for? And now I’m saying it, and I’m realizing that people say it because they feel stupid that they have no better words.”

“What else could they say?” Anne asked.

“I don’t know. How about, I hope the bastard rots in hell for what he did to you?”

Anne laughed out loud. “Now I like that! That’s what a real friend would say!”

Lauren found herself chuckling. “I’m such a lady! You must be so impressed with me!”

“I am,” Anne said, her dark eyes full of genuine kindness. “I am. Maybe we can collaborate on an etiquette handbook for crime victims and their friends and families.”

“Right,” Lauren said. “Let’s start with Thou Shalt Not Bring Tuna Casserole.”

“That could be the title!”

“Oh my God.”

How good does it feel to smile, she thought as she leaned forward and picked up the mug of peppermint tea. It felt like . . . relief. Like she had opened a pressure valve and let off some steam.

“What would people think if they could hear us making jokes about this?” she asked.

“They wouldn’t get it,” Anne said. “They can’t get it, and that’s okay. We can’t expect them to.”

“They don’t know the secret handshake,” Lauren said, sobering, remembering their conversation from the night before. You belong to a club nobody wants to join . . .

“We get through it the best way we can,” Anne said. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks.”

“He went to prison, right?” Lauren said. “The man who attacked you.”

“He took a plea. He’s in prison for now.”

“But he was a serial killer.”

“There wasn’t enough evidence to charge him on those murders.”

Lauren closed her eyes. The coincidence made her head swim. A serial killer had gone free for lack of evidence. Roland Ballencoa was a free man for lack of evidence that he had taken her daughter.

Was there no justice anywhere?

A crazy image of Ballencoa sitting somewhere in this town having coffee and eating breakfast flashed through her head. People might glance at him, notice him, think nothing of him. They would have no idea who or what he was. Because they had no evidence.

She knew in her heart what he had done, but she had no evidence.

Her heart was beating a little too fast. Anxiety was like a million needles pricking her skin. A fine mist of sweat rose from her pores.

“I should be going,” she said suddenly. She set the mug down on the table and got up without looking at Anne. “I’ll pick Leah up in the morning.”

“No, no,” Anne said. “I’m happy to drop her off at the ranch. Wendy has finagled another riding lesson for tomorrow morning. I’ll be taking her anyway.”