“Did Jordan go with you?” Muffled voices in the background made it difficult for her to hear him.

“Er, no.” She cringed. “I couldn’t get ahold of her,” she lied. Wendy sniffed and rubbed her nose against the back of her hand.

There was a pause. Mr. Darling’s voice became gruff. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

Wendy cleared her throat. “Nothing, I’m fine. I’m just getting really bad allergies,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, Peter wrapped a stray thread from his shorts around his finger.

There was another pause. More muffled voices. Mr. Darling’s exhale crackled against her ear. “Go straight home. Your mother should be there waiting for you.”

“What do you mean?” Wendy asked. She frowned. “Wait, Dad, where are you?”

“I’m in the woods with the search parties,” he said. Wendy sat bolt upright. Quickly, her head jerked around, half expecting her father to be standing right in front of them at the edge of the woods.

Peter frowned. His head tilted curiously to the side.

“I told Donald Davies that I would help.”

Of course: Donald Davies, the father of the two boys who’d gone missing the night before. Wendy had completely forgotten that he worked with her father at the bank. They weren’t just neighbors, they were coworkers.

“But, like I said,” he went on, “your mom is home waiting for you, so hurry back. She’s had a long day and needs some rest. I won’t be home until late. Maybe in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“Night, Wendy.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Wendy put her phone away. Peter watched her, eyebrows raised expectantly. “So … what’s going on?” he asked.

“My dad is out helping the search party. He won’t be back until late tonight or early tomorrow.” Wendy couldn’t help being surprised. Her dad usually kept to himself. He didn’t really hang out with anyone outside of work—not that Wendy knew of, anyway. He wasn’t social or even all that friendly.

But it made sense, she supposed. Of course he would want to help. Mr. Davies had lost his sons, just like her father had lost John and Michael.

Wendy swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “One less parent to sneak you past, I guess.” She tried to say it casually with a laugh, but it came out as a squeak.

Peter didn’t say anything, just nodded. His jaw worked under his cheek, eyes trained on the thread again.

“You’re being too quiet,” Wendy told him. There wasn’t enough room in the stuffy cab for them both to be awkward. Wendy jabbed a finger into his shoulder. “I don’t like it.”

Peter glanced up at her. A shadow of an amused smile played on his lips. “Sorry. I’m just picturing the spot above your TV where your dad is going to mount my head if he finds me.”