Facebook. Katie Collins. New Orleans. For a moment I get excited when I see a young woman with blonde hair. But on closer examination I see it’s not her, not the face on TV. I try Twitter. Instagram. Once or twice I see a face that resembles hers but when I search further it yields nothing. Is it possible she has no online presence other than the news reports, which are not saying much except that her worried husband’s name is Thomas Collins? What if I contact him? He might be able to tell me something of use. But how do I do that? How do I get a number for Thomas Collins? Turner isn’t going to give it to me, but there must be some other way. Facebook. Twitter. Instagram. Nothing. Resting my head against the cushion, I stretch out on the couch and fall into a deep sleep.

The room is dark when I wake. It’s after midnight. I’ve slept for over three hours and missed three calls. Two from Dad, one from Danny. Oh God. Something must be wrong with Mom. My fingers quiver pressing the voice message button. Dad’s voice sounds weak; my mother had a bad turn but everything is okay now. Of course he is going to say that everything is okay. I need to see her for myself.

The night sky is completely clear, stars twinkling as I drive out to Oakridge nursing home. The gas gauge needle hovers on the red line, making me wonder if I’ll be able to cover the thirty miles to Braintree and back. I never think to check it. Other than visiting Mom or Dad my car usually sits in the underground car park most of the time because the Bridgeway and King offices are not far from my apartment. Walking gets me there quicker than driving, and anyway I don’t have a parking place. They’re kept for the people on the top floor, who are at the top of their game. The ones with their own offices, own clients, own mistresses. They are not for the mistresses. I wonder if the women in the top floor offices have affairs with the boys in the mailing room. I hope they do. I’d hate to think we have come this far and buckle under the strain of morality.

The journey seems endless as I replay Dad’s message in my head. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Becca,’ he’d said, ‘but I just thought you should know. No need to come rushing out here. She’s sleeping now, and the doctor says she’s doing fine.’

I have never had any reason to disbelieve Dad, but something in his voice is unsettling me lately. It sounds flat, without any emotion, almost as if he is giving up.