I was on my feet, a scream stuck in my throat, before I could so much as blink. When I did blink, she was gone.

I sat back down so abruptly it was almost a collapse, my whole body breaking out in icy sweat. Dust motes danced in the sunlight where I’d seen her standing. There was no girl in Robert’s room. There was no girl period. Lexie was almost fifty now; she’d looked closer to sixty in her mug shot. I scrubbed at my aching eyes, clearing the last of her away.

I went to pick up Robert and smell his downy head, whispering, “We’re safe, you’re safe, we’re safe,” as I changed him, but I did not believe it.

I walked over to his dresser, inspecting myself in the mirror. It took me a little while to find Bree Cabbat’s face. I practiced her relaxed shoulders, easy posture, all her regular expressions. I manufactured a soft, unworried gaze and pushed my mouth into a happy shape. I held that cheery smile until I could see it light my eyes. Only then did I go to make sure that the girls were up and getting ready for school. For the next half hour, I played the role of their mother, fixing breakfast and checking homework.

As soon as they left with the same ex-soldier who’d taken Trey, I let my face do whatever it wanted. I let my body slouch and huddle. I longed for Trey to call or text, give me any indication of his thoughts today.

I needed sleep. I lay down with Robert for all his naps, but sleep would not come. The day floated by us in a fog, and the slim shape of young Lexie lurked in every shadow. She woke me from every faint doze I fell into, touching my cheek with chilly fingers. When Robert was up and playing or eating or fussing, she coalesced at every window, staring in with wide, accusing eyes. I would whip to face her and find nothing.

I decided that tonight I would take one of Trey’s pills after all.

It was past four when I finally heard from my husband. He sent a text.

Things got out of hand last night. We’re sleep-deprived and so on edge. And who can blame us? I love you. You know that. Can we talk?

I texted back immediately. I’d like that.

Good. Not at home, though. Meet me for a drink after work at Haven?

South City Haven was a chic gastropub on the ground floor of the Midtown high-rise that housed his firm. The building was up on a hill, putting Haven at least a floor above Tenth Avenue’s traffic sounds. Trey’s building shared the block with a luxury hotel and a huge parking garage, the rest of the space taken by a rare Midtown green space that stretched between the buildings.