“Have you seen Paige?” I ask, knowing that he’ll censure me for losing track of her. And worse, he should censure me. I know better than to leave her alone for even a minute. An ordinary six-year-old girl? Sure. She could survive on her own while you make mac and cheese. One reeling from loss and angry at the world? That’s a different story.

“You don’t know where she is?” he asks, slamming his phone on the desk. “You misplaced her like a sock in the goddamn dryer? Please explain to me what I’m paying you for.”

“Listen. You can be angry at me, you can hate me. You can fire me, but right now I just need to find her. So I’m assuming you haven’t seen her. I’ll keep looking.”

He lets out a growl of frustration and follows me through the hallway and down the stairs. “Did you check the living room with the fireplace? She likes to hide underneath the chairs there.”

“Already checked.”

“What about the pantry? Those Pop-Tarts—”

“I came from the kitchen. She’s not there.”

“Her room? She can slip away and end up taking a nap.”

I whirl on him. “So what you’re saying is that you already know she has a habit of sneaking away and hiding, and you didn’t bother to warn me about it?”

He looks grim. “I thought it was only me she’d hide from.”

The innate sadness of that statement makes my heart clench. But the unease I’ve been feeling at her absence turns into acute worry. The fact that she has a history of hiding makes it clear she’s an expert at this. Maybe she’s decided to try a new hiding spot.

I glance again at the windows. “What if she went outside?”

“It’s freezing out there.”

“She’s—” My voice breaks. “She’s hurting. She’s beyond hurting. She’s numb with it. When you’re grieving like that, you can’t feel physical pain the same way.”

He gives me a grim look before turning to the window. “Then we’ll check outside. If there’s a chance she’s out there, we need to bring her inside before she gets sick.”

Our eyes meet, and in his dark gaze I see the haunting knowledge of his concern for her. He may be in over his head with this whole business of raising a little girl, but he does care about her. There’s stark fear in his eyes that he might fail her. It makes my heart squeeze.

We head to the front door, grabbing our jackets that hang by the door. I slip my worn-out Converse knockoffs onto my bare feet and head outside.