I walked her back to Marshall, and she was so little that it felt as if Anna-Claire or Peyton were tucked under my arm. She clung, letting me guide her to the sofa, so pliable I could have walked her anywhere. I sat her back down in between us.

Marshall passed her his phone, showing her a photo I’d sent. It had been taken last year, at a firm dinner. Spencer Shaw looked out from the screen with a shit-eating dog’s grin on his face. Trey stood by him looking serious in the blue suit I liked best, the one that darkened his eyes to navy.

She stared for a long time before she said, “I don’t know them. I want to say I do. I want to recognize one of them at least. But I’ve never seen either of those men.”

I believed her. She was too messed up to lie. It did not hurl me into despair. I would have been surprised if she had recognized them. Her husband was the one we most wanted to question.

Marshall swiped again, showing her the grainy shot from my security camera.

“I don’t think—” she began, then tilted her head to one side. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve seen her somewhere? I don’t know her. But I could swear I’ve seen that face.”

She’d probably spotted the mother the same way I had. A darkness in her peripheral vision. We were the same in this, and as she clutched my hand, I became wholly myself. Bree Cabbat, raw and hurting. I swore silently that when this was over, no matter what, I would find a way to let her know what had happened to Geoff. She’d pushed me past caring if I were caught. At this point I was the only one who could end up in prison. Marshall worked for Gabrielle, and her privilege covered him, right up until the point that we kidnapped the daughter. I’d leave him out of that, too, if I had to. I would do it all and tell this poor woman the truth, and I would go to jail. I wouldn’t care, if Robert was safe.

Kelly asked, “If I don’t recognize those men, does that mean the cases aren’t connected?”

“Not necessarily,” Marshall said, and at the same time, I said, “No. Don’t worry about the men. It’s the old woman. She took them, we think.”

She stared at the picture, and Marshall mouthed, “Bree!” at me over her head, his nostrils flaring.

“Where do you think you saw her?” I asked, ignoring him.

“I’m not sure. Just, she looks familiar.”

“If I can ask a question, now,” Marshall said, tight, and then in softer tones, to her, “Your husband, is he a Ph.D.?”