But nervous or not, she’s going to do this by the book. Which means that Detective Julie Bergen has won out over Mama Bear. At least for today.

“Yes. Sorry. I … um … I know who the bag belongs to. The duffel I found in the girls’ locker room. It’s Jake’s.”

Another heartbeat of silence. “Jake Mercer?”

“Yes.”

She sets her phone on the counter between us, still recording. “How can you be sure of that?”

“I recognized the bleach stain near the bottom of the left side.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this on Friday, in your original statement?”

“Because I wanted to ask him about it myself first. I mean, if the bag is his, I thought … the baby might be. And if that’s true …” I shrug.

My mother ends the recording, because whatever she wants to ask now will be off the record. “Beckett, did your breakup with Jake have anything to do with the baby?”

Translation: Did you dump your boyfriend because you found out he got someone else pregnant?

“No! I didn’t know anything about the baby until I found it Friday afternoon. And Jake swears it isn’t his. That it can’t be.”

“So then, why did you break up with him?”

“Mom, that doesn’t matter—”

“To the investigation? Probably not. To your mother? It definitely does.”

“Fine.” I sigh, as if saying this is no big deal. “I thought he was cheating.”

She blinks, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. She’s gotten really good at that, and I don’t think it’s a skill she learned on the job. I think it’s something she picked up from dealing with my dad. From trying to keep the worst of it to herself.

“Why did you think he was cheating?”

“Because he started hiding texts from me. Like, turning his phone over, so I couldn’t see the screen. Putting his phone under his leg while we watch movies, so I can’t even see if it lights up. And that felt suspicious. And you said that sometimes you have to trust your hunches.”

Her guarded expression crumples to expose … guilt. “Oh, Beck, that’s not … You’re not a police detective. I was talking about work. About an instinct I’ve developed over a fourteen-year-long career. You haven’t had—”

“You weren’t talking about work when you said that. You were talking about—”

Dad.

I don’t say it out loud, but I can tell that she hears it, because she looks like I just slapped her.

“Beckett …”

“You said you could tell something was wrong, and that you had to trust your gut, and you were right.”

But she was too late. We were all too late.

I can’t be too late again.