Why would she march over here with her key, peel the signs from the glass and not say anything about it to me? Why would she spout off some bullshit story about a silent auction and not give me some kind of signal—a wink, a nod or a cocked brow? Why not agree to take Baxter right away when I begged her to; even more, why not volunteer to bring him across the road to safety? Why didn’t she see Beatrix’s SOS and call 9-1-1 right away? Why has no one come to save us? Why, why, why?

And then I think of something else, and the visual of her walking to the door flashes behind my eyes. The way her ponytail swished and the sweater stretched across her hips, how it was hitched up on one side like there was something in her back pocket—which I now know there was.

Beatrix’s signs.

The man turns away from the window, his gaze panning over my daughter and me, and my heart leaps up my throat. He caught us whispering again. My mind races, searching for another bullshit excuse when he looks away.

“Uh-huh,” he says, still frowning into the phone.

I take in the squint of his eyes, the thinning of his lips. Whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying, it’s not good news.

“All we have to do is keep her steady until tomorrow morning,” he says, aiming his frown at me. He gives me his back, turning to the window. “Tomorrow morning we’ll get everybody on board, and then we can finally move forward. Until then, all you’ve got to do is keep her stable.”

Whoever’s on the other end of that call cranks up the volume, yelling loud enough that he peels the phone from his ear. I can’t make out the words, but the voice is female, and her anger, her indignation comes across loud and clear.

“Okay, okay...calm down, will you? You know I didn’t mean it like that. I get that you’re worried, but so am I. I’m just as worried as you are.”

Worry—that is the emotion I spotted on his face, a worry I’m all too familiar with. The kind only another parent can have for his child.

That’s when all the pieces fall together in a perfectly clear line: I was right before; this man is a father. This person he keeps referring to is his daughter. His sick daughter.

I think back to the half of the conversation I overheard in the kitchen downstairs, and it all makes sense. Levels, numbers, all of them worrisome. Cancer? Something deadly, certainly.