Tanisha gave a soft snort of disgust. “Why would I?” Tanisha rolled her expressive, mascara-rimmed eyes. She and Selma had never really gotten to know each other. Whereas Selma Denning was in her midforties and stuck in a rut where her ex-husband was concerned, Tanisha, at twenty-eight, thought Selma should “kick that son of a bitch’s ass to the curb and move the hell on.” Ever forthright, Tanisha had said as much in one session. Of course, Tanisha’s advice had gone over like the proverbial lead balloon.

“I don’t know, I thought she might have called you and . . . and some of the others in the group,” Brianna said as the coffeepot gave off a final hiss and the warm scent of java tried valiantly to hide the musty odor of the building.

“Well, she didn’t.” Tanisha’s back was still up. “So what’s up? God, that woman’s a dishrag. No backbone, y’ know.”

“Her twins are missing. Both girls.”

“Missing?” She still wasn’t getting it. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she frowned. “What do you mean ‘missing’? As in adult kids didn’t come in or call Mommy?”

“It’s more than that.”

As Tanisha doctored her coffee with sugar and powdered cream, Brianna gave her a quick rundown, and as the gravity of the situation sunk in, Tanisha’s face fell. Compassion replaced belligerence. “Oh, my God, that’s awful. You don’t think . . . holy shit,” she whispered. “The 21 Killer?” She blinked, disbelieving. Though she and Brianna had discussed the fact that Brianna thought the wrong man had been imprisoned, Tanisha had believed, or wanted desperately to believe, that 21 was behind bars.

“We don’t know. Yet.”

“This is awful.” Tanisha set her undrunk cup on the tray holding the Air-Pot and glanced toward the entry as members of the group began to stream in.

Lincoln Robinson, a musician, could rarely scare up a smile despite the fact that he was happily married and the father of a fifteen-year-old scholar who was following in her father’s footsteps as a pianist. Still, the weight of losing his brother was a burden Lincoln had trouble shouldering. Survivor’s guilt. Both boys had been in an automobile accident nearly twenty years ago; while Lincoln survived, his brother had been pronounced DOA at the hospital. Tall, lean, and African American, Lincoln was a thoughtful member of the group, offering his stories and opinions quietly. He was the opposite of outspoken and direct Tanisha.

Lincoln lifted a hand in greeting and made his way to a chair he favored, positioned near the broad bank of windows running along one side of this third-floor room. “Evenin’,” he said with a nod as Milo and Desmond walked in.