The trembling in her chest started to wind its way up Wendy’s spine. She wanted to cry out, scream, run away, maybe just explode.

“Mrs. Darling?” As Detective James took a step toward her mother, the door to the study swung open.

Wendy’s father stood in the doorway, filling the frame. He had salt-and-pepper hair, but a dyed mustache. His nose was large and bulbous, and his forehead had deep-set wrinkles even when he wasn’t frowning, which, to be fair, wasn’t often. He was in the same suit he’d worn to work at the bank yesterday. The dull black material was rumpled. The pinstripe shirt underneath was wrinkled, and his tie was missing.

Mr. Darling’s face was red. His small eyes under thick brows darted back and forth between the two detectives before sweeping over to his silent wife and, finally, landing on Wendy at the table. His fingers gripped the wooden doorframe so hard it surrendered a small creak.

“Who are you?” He had a booming voice. “And what are you doing in my house?”

While Detective Rowan squared her shoulders and watched Mr. Darling placidly, Detective James quickly flipped through his notebook. “Um—George Darling?” Wendy’s father did not reply. “I’m Detective James, this is Detective—”

“Detectives?” The lines in her father’s face deepened. “What’re two detectives doing in my house?” His eyes shifted to Wendy, full of accusation.

Wendy’s shoulders hunched up and she shrank lower in her chair. Already she was in trouble. This didn’t bode well.

“There was an incident last night—”

“What incident?”

Detective James started to recite the story again, but Wendy didn’t pay attention. She didn’t need to hear what she had been through last night. Instead, she watched her mother, who seemed to have come out of her trance a bit.

Mrs. Darling pulled out a chair and sat down. Without sparing Wendy a glance, she leaned forward, elbows on the table, and pressed her face into her palms.

Wendy’s body gave another shudder. Maybe they were both thinking the same thing.

That no one had hope of finding John and Michael.

The detectives didn’t mention it as a possibility. Her mom hadn’t shown any sign of relief.

Wendy looked down at her hands, remembering the blood caked under her nails.

No. No one else would expect to find them alive, but Wendy held out hope. There was something in her that knew they weren’t dead. It was a gut instinct. Wendy didn’t believe in much, but she believed in that, and she held tight to the feeling—the faith that they were out there, somewhere, even if no one else agreed.

Right now, she couldn’t stand listening any longer. She needed to get out of there. To get some fresh air and clear her head.