“Tell her I have a Skype study with Anderson at six. I need to get home,” Anna-Claire said, grumpy.

“Where’s the car?” Peyton asked.

At the same time, words were tumbling out of Bree. They were nonsense.

“The baby is . . . the baby is—I’m sick. I’m so sick. Please take the girls to your house.” He blinked. Marshall lived a good half hour outside the city, way past Bree’s own house. He heard her take a long, shuddering inhale. “No. I mean, take them to my mom’s place.”

He covered the mouthpiece, made himself sound calm and easy. “Girls, I can’t hear with you talking. Out!” Cara shook her head at him, a frantic, minuscule no. He fixed all three with pure adult face. “Go on. Close the door.”

Cara shot him an anguished look, but she went. Anna-Claire made her nervous. She was the school’s It Girl, according to his daughter. She wasn’t mean to Cara. He’d asked. Still, he was an ex-cop, with a feel for people. The air between the two girls always felt a little scratchy to him, like sandpaper. But it was kid stuff, and something serious and grown-up wasn’t right with Bree. He waited until the door shut to ask, “How sick? Should I call an ambulance? Where are you?”

“No. No ambulance. Just take the girls to my mom’s. I’m already on the way to the doctor.” That explained the missing car. So why were the hairs on the back of his neck standing up? “Anna-Claire can tell you how to get there. It’s close. Walk them in to the security desk and ask for Shelly Ann Kroger.”

“Jesus, Bree, I know your mom’s name.” He and Bets had practically lived at Bree’s house back in high school. Shelly Ann had served the punch at his wedding. What was wrong with her?

Bree talked over him. “She’ll come down and sign them in. Don’t scare her. It’s just a stomach flu, but I don’t want the girls to get it.” She was lying. She was way too upset. Peyton was staring through the little square window in the door, her eyebrows anxious, as if she, too, knew her mom was lying. Out in the hall, he could hear Cara and Anna-Claire singing in harmony, some doowop thing from the play. Bree added, “And don’t call my husband. I’ll call him.”

As if he would call his boss to inform him that his wife wasn’t feeling well. “What’s going on? You sound—”

She cut him off again. “I think you fucking owe me this.” She almost snarled it. “Help me, or you can goddamn well explain to Trey why you wouldn’t.”