As Brianna took the stool next to her, Selma explained how Chloe and Zoe, students at All Saints College in Baton Rouge, had come to town with plans to spend the evening barhopping with friends in New Orleans. It was, after all, in between terms. Selma hadn’t liked the idea much, but they’d laughed her off, claiming as always that she was a super-controlling mother. They had ignored Selma’s suggestion that since she lived in New Orleans, they crash at her place, an apartment on Lafayette Street. Although she had promised they could come in late with “no questions asked,” her twins had declined to spend their first night as legal adults in their mother’s guest room. “But I did have them leave their car with me. They share a car. It’s in Carson’s name. He bought it for them a while back. I didn’t want them getting back behind the wheel, you know. I insisted they get a designated driver, one of their friends to drive them back to Baton Rouge. They were supposed to get a ride and come back and pick it up, but . . . the car is still there and . . .” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t think they made it back to the college.”

“But it’s only been a few hours,” Brianna argued, thinking her friend had jumped the gun on her worries. “And they were partying,” Brianna argued, feeling a little better. “Maybe they had a late night.”

“Why aren’t they answering their cell phones? Not even a text message.” Selma frowned, eyebrows pulling together behind her glasses, lips trembling a little. “No one has heard from them this morning, and I found out that Chloe didn’t make it into work. She was supposed to be at the coffee shop at five thirty. She didn’t show. Zoe is due at her part-time job at the accounting firm by seven, and you can bet I’ll be calling her there, but . . . but I have a feeling I won’t find her.”

In Brianna’s mind, it was still too early to be alarmed. “They’re young adults. I’d say this is most likely the result of a wild night out.”

“I want to believe that, but I just can’t. I know something’s wrong.” The cup started trembling in Selma’s hands and she set it on the scarred butcher block counter. “Christ, I’m a pathetic excuse for a mother.”

“Selma, quit beating yourself up. You don’t know that anything’s wrong, and you’re a great mom.”