“We’re not reporters or cops,” Marshall said, calm and easy, as if he were talking to a wild horse. “We’re not publicists either.”

I saw fear flash across her face, and then it was gone and she was laughing. “No? For a second I thought, oh God, they’re here to rob and kill me, and then I realized I don’t care. That seems fine, actually.” She shrugged, then turned to me, waving a hand at my dress. “But I doubt robber-killers wear Max Mara.”

“My name is Marshall.” Marshall pulled out his wallet, flipping it open to show her his license. He was in the sitting area, across the breakfast counter, too far for her to see his details. Not that it mattered. She barely glanced at it. “I’m a private investigator.”

Her too-bright doll’s eyes pointed back at me. “I know that dress. Nine hundred dollars, right? I saw it at Saks just before Geoff—” Her voice cut out abruptly. Then she went on. “I was waiting for it to go on sale, but you have it already. You must be here to milk us for cash. Get a few more full-price dresses, huh? Well, we already have a PI milking us. Fat lot of good that happy asshole’s done.”

Marshall stayed in character, firm and kind. “I’m not looking for a payday. Not from you. I’m already on a case. It led me here.”

She wasn’t listening. She was in motion, herding me around the counter, staggering a little as she tried to gather him up as well, waving her arms. “Get out! Now! I will call the useless cops, and they’ll come, too. Any excuse to poke around, ask me more endless questions. It’s what they do instead of looking for people’s missing children.”

When Marshall didn’t move, she shoved him. It broke my heart. She was so small and soft, shoving at a mountain. I felt a rush of fondness for Marshall as the mountain moved for her, as if her shove had power. As if it mattered. But I couldn’t simply leave.

I grabbed her arm, hauling her around to face me. Her face was a parody of outrage, and she slapped at my hands. I held on tight.

“I’m not a PI. I’m a mother. My name is Bree Cabbat. He works for me.”

“Bree,” Marshall said, a warning bell.

I ignored him, holding her fast and saying, “I’m a mother. I’m a mother,” again and again as she struggled and smacked at me. “They took my son, too.”

She heard me then. She stilled, and her dead doll’s eyes found my face. “The same people?”

“We think so. That’s why we’re here.”

“He’s still missing?” She swallowed, breathing hard. “Your son is missing?”