Chris Flynn, John’s best friend and workout buddy, stood in the foyer with his hands in his blonde curls. In the time he’d known Chris since high school, John had never seen his friend so distraught, and Chris had already been intimately acquainted with the Farmingdale Police Department for petty theft charges when they’d met. John’s father had barely tolerated Chris and his “trailer-trash” family, but John’s patient mother had accepted and straightened out the stray that John kept bringing home. Becca hadn’t cut off an appendage, she was just on her period. But since he and Chris were damn near brothers, his concern for Becca was akin to a nervous father. “She won’t come out of her bedroom. Dude, I’ve been trying to talk to her through the door, but she’s not hearing it.”

John dropped his bag at the door and walked to the living room searching for his laptop. “Did you try Skyping Jessi?”

“No, it’s like, 3 a.m. in Stockholm, right?”

Goddammit. He forgot about the time difference. “Okay. I need a plan.”

“Do you have any uh...you know, products?” Chris asked.

John shot his friend a glare. “Do I look like I keep maxi pads in my house?”

Chris flung his hands up. “Shit, man, I’m just asking.”

They both looked down the hallway at the guest bedroom door. “I’ve got to talk to her.”

“Good luck with that.”

John pulled his friend by the front of his shirt and walked him down the hallway. “You’re not leaving me yet,” he whispered.

“I’m just the babysitter,” Chris hissed, shaking himself loose. “All period problems are reserved for the parent or guardian.”

“Help me talk her off the ledge, man.”

They stood at Becca’s door staring at one another. Chris widened his blue eyes and nodded to the door. “Go ahead then.”

John knocked softly. “Hey, Becca?”

They got no response aside from the increased volume of music in her room.

“What is she listening to?” John asked.

Chris rolled his eyes. “Alanis Morissette. The entire time we’ve been here, I’ve heard ‘You Oughta Know’ twenty times.” His voice dropped to a low growl. “I feel like I’m in a fucking time machine.”

John tried not to laugh as he knocked again. “Becca, honey. Please talk to me.”

“Leave me alone!”

“I can’t do that.”

“I don’t want to talk!”

Chris nudged him. “You might want to try a firmer hand,” he whispered.

Firm was not a tactic he used on children. He’d dealt with his share of rowdy kids at work and knew that a softer approach was more effective. John shook his head. “She’s not going to respond to that. I know I didn’t.”

His friend shrugged. “If you say so.”