Slowly, her chest unclenches and the blood rushing in her ears quiets. The courts will find for her, if it even gets that far—which it won’t. There’s no way Alan will actually press the issue, not once he realizes she’s not simply going to roll over and show him her throat. He only likes things when they’re easy. For whatever reason, he thinks walking in and becoming a father to a three-year-old girl he’s never so much as seen before will be easy. Well, it won’t, and neither will she.

The thought of Anastasia makes her realize, all too abruptly, how quiet it is in the house. The air has the particular stillness that means she’s alone, which isn’t right. Heart sinking, she tries to remember whether she heard the front door close while she was on the phone with her ex. She did, didn’t she?

Well, that’s all right. Anastasia is allowed to play in the yard, as long as she stays on the grass and in view of the windows. Everything is fine. She’s sure that everything is fine. She rushes to the window. She looks out.

There is no little girl on the lawn.

Caroline’s heart sinks deeper, a rock dropping through her chest. She forces her steps to stay light as she walks to the door, opens it, and steps onto the porch. As long as she doesn’t panic—as long as she doesn’t lose her cool—nothing will be really wrong. As long as she doesn’t admit the possibility of true crisis, everything will be fine.

She’s there, she thinks, and the words are half to reassure herself and half a plea to a distant and possibly imaginary God. She’s aware that bargaining with the divine is a bad habit to fall into, but she doesn’t see another option. She lost focus. She got distracted. She didn’t pay attention. She did all the things she’s not allowed to do, all the things that would make her a bad mother, and now … and now …

For just a moment, when she opens the front door, she sees Anastasia sitting on the lawn, playing some complicated and incomprehensible game with her eternally expanding stable of plastic horses. For just a moment, she can see the sunlight shining off her daughter’s hair, hear the soft mutter of instructions conveyed to imaginary equines, and everything is going to be okay, everything is going to be fine. For just a moment.

Then the moment breaks, and the sunlight is shining down on nothing but empty grass. The horses are there, a few of them, but they lie discarded, not held tight in loving hands. There is no sign of Anastasia. No sign at all.