Haven’s portion of the lawn had a bocce-ball court and little bistro tables, all set far enough from each other to afford some privacy. It was a perfect place to talk. Being in public would keep us calm and quiet. We would be forced to be gentle with each other. A drink wouldn’t hurt either.

I texted back. Good idea. I’ll reserve an outside table. Six o’clock?

He thumbsed-up my text, and that was all.

By the time the girls got home from rehearsal and Robotics Club, I had my happy-mommy face back on. I’d called Mom over to sit with all three kids. I knew it would be hard on her nerves, but I couldn’t leave the house without her there. My mother was more vigilant than any fifty ex-marines. She’d drive the bodyguards insane, making sure every slight noise or shadow was thoroughly investigated.

I’d had a serious come-to-Jesus with her about PTSD and what she could and could not say to my daughters. She was doing her best to match her face to mine, calm and smiling. Still, her shoulders were tense, and right before the girls got home, she’d questioned me relentlessly about how the search for Lexie Pine was going.

Not well. Neither the police nor Marshall and Gabrielle had any traction. Marshall agreed with me: This boded ill. An innocent Lexie, one who had not helped her mother commit kidnappings and murders, would come forward to claim her mother’s body. Best case, she was on the run, far away. If she was close, this deep in hiding—it spoke of very bad intentions.

“Ugh! Another date night?” Anna-Claire asked, giving her sister a sideways glance that spoke volumes.

I’d dressed myself so carefully, as if for a date, choosing a floral sundress that was the modern version of the dress I’d once worn to the High Museum. It had a swirly skirt that ended above the knee, and I’d thrown a light sweater on over it, peach-pale and flattering. I’d used a heavy hand with the makeup, trying for the kind of fresh and natural pretty that takes an hour and a thousand products when the starting face was as tired and haggard as my own.

“Yep,” I told my daughters, cheery, cheery.

Anna-Claire had already been sucked back into her phone, but Peyton gave me a long, hard look. She sensed that something was up. Of course, with her anxiety she always sensed that something was up. It was inevitable that sometimes she would be right. I smiled, reassuring. I knew how to play the role of her mother. My body knew how to telegraph soft, reassuring lies.