Wendy shut off the water and gripped the edge of the sink. Her hands were bright red, the knuckles blanched. Pin drops of blood spread through the dry cracks. The hot water had burned, and her skin stung, but she’d gotten rid of the ink. Even her legs only had bright streaks left from being scrubbed raw.

A shaky breath filled Wendy’s lungs, an attempt to steady herself. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. The hair at her temples and the back of her neck was damp with sweat. Her gray eyes stared back at her, puffy and bloodshot.

She needed to find Peter and tell him what had happened. He was the only one who could make sense of it.

The clock on Wendy’s counter read 11:32 a.m.

“Shit!” she cursed. She had told Peter to meet her at noon.

Wendy jumped into the shower to wash the sticky, stale sweat off her skin. Drying her hair would take too long, so cold drips hit the back of her neck as she rushed around her room. She pulled on a pair of green shorts and a navy tank top before sliding on her tennis shoes. Grabbing her bag, she bounded down the stairs and nearly tripped on her laces.

Wendy was halfway across the living room when her father’s voice rang out. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

She whirled around to find her father standing in the doorway of his study. He wore a dark blue suit that was a little too tight across his barrel chest. He had somehow managed to wrangle his hair with gel into an uneven comb-over. Even his bushy mustache was trimmed.

Wendy frowned. He never dressed this nice for work. And why was he home in the middle of a weekday?

“Why aren’t you at work?” Wendy asked, momentarily distracted from her mission by his odd appearance.

“I’m not at work because I need to take you down to the police station, remember?” Mr. Darling grumbled as he hooked a sausage-like finger over the knot of his tie, trying to wiggle it loose. “I’m taking a half day to deal with this.”

“What?” Wendy said, starting. Her mind went into a panic with visions of handcuffs and mugshots and dark interrogation rooms.

Mr. Darling furrowed his thick eyebrows. “Those detectives still want to talk to you.”

“Oh, right.” A wave of relief washed over her. Wendy rocked onto the balls of her feet so she could read the clock next to the TV: 11:54 a.m. She was supposed to meet Peter any minute now, and she had so much to tell him. “Can we go a bit later?” Wendy tried, wincing in anticipation of his answer.

Mr. Darling scowled. “No, we can’t go later,” he barked, waving his hand in the air. “Where do you have to get to that’s so important?”