The wine made a glug-glug-glug sound as Reginald poured more into each of their glasses. “But I think being a good mother outweighs everything.” And then he looked at her so kindly, Andrea ducked her head bashfully. “Arthur’s lucky to have you.”

“Oh,” was all Andrea could say. And then, to her horror, she felt her eyes fill with tears. It was really all she wanted: to be a good parent. Not to screw him up. Cynthia was a mother, and so was she. They had that between them. How would she react if Arthur took a different path than the one she wanted? She’d like to think she’d take it in stride, as long as he was happy. But maybe she wouldn’t know until it happened.

“Hey,” Reginald said, ducking his head so he could look her in the eyes. “You okay?”

Andrea laughed and then waved her arm in a gesture that she hoped said, Oh, don’t mind me. “Sometimes I get a little weepy,” she lied. And then she smiled at him. It was a smile tinged with sadness—both because of her doubts and because she worried that this moment, warm and lovely and ordinary and precious, was fleeting.

Nothing stayed buried forever.

Twenty

On Monday, four days after Piper’s attack, Ronnie awoke to Lane’s hand on her shoulder. “Ronnie,” he said. “Ronnie. Veronica.”

Her eyes snapped open. “What?” Lane wasn’t the type to use her full name. She felt in trouble. Instantly, the Missing flyer popped in her mind. Someone knew what she’d done. Maybe whoever it was had told Lane.

“An officer’s out there who wants to speak with you,” Lane said. His face was gray. Grave. “I’m sorry. I tried to keep him away. And I called Cromwell, but he didn’t pick up.”

Ronnie shot out of bed. She pulled on jeans, a bra, a T-shirt. Then she changed her T-shirt because the first T-shirt was too tight.

On her way out of the bedroom, Lane caught her arm. “Honey, I’m so, so sorry.”

“Stop saying that. It’s not your fault.”

“I know, I just . . .” He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I should have listened to you. You were trying to tell me something on the balcony that night—about the note you got. And I didn’t hear you. I let my admiration for Piper get in the way. I should have stood by you.”

Ronnie pressed her head into his chest, and they hugged. “You are standing by me.”

A tall, gangly officer waited in the living room, his torso bent over his knees. He was examining some of Esme’s drawings on the coffee table—Ronnie hadn’t tidied the art supplies from the night before. He looked up when she walked in. “Cute pictures.”