“Your daughter doesn’t know you. She was two when we left. She thinks of me as her mother. Babies aren’t dogs. They don’t know your smell.” Ronnie couldn’t quite meet Vanessa’s gaze. “We have to ease her into it, get her prepared. You can’t just take her—she’d be traumatized.” Ronnie started crying. “Think of her. Not just yourself.”

Vanessa chewed on the inside of her lip, then lifted up the mug of tea and drained it as though it were a shot of tequila. “Fine. Get your fancy mediator. Schedule it for tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? “B-But I need to find someone first. And I don’t know if someone will have an opening for to—”

“I’m coming to your place at noon,” Vanessa said, her eyes turning dark. “I know where you live. I’m gonna gather up my stuff, pay off my guy, get gas, and then I’ll be by.” Then she hefted herself up and grabbed the canvas Safeway bag it appeared she was using as a tote and gave her a final glare. “You’d better be there.”

Ronnie scrambled up, full of both relief and doubt, not sure what she needed to do next. As Vanessa turned, Ronnie felt a strong, protective sensation rush over her. “W-Where are you staying tonight?”

Vanessa didn’t answer; she rolled her eyes and started for the curb. She glanced at Ronnie one more time, then shook her head with disgust. “You always were too fucking pretty, Ronnie.”

And then she was gone. Ronnie sat back down, running her palms against the rough surface of the bench. Then, shakily, she gathered up their trash and walked back into the café to throw it away. The barista glanced at her, but her smile dimmed when she saw Ronnie’s blotchy cheeks and wet eyes. Wordlessly, Ronnie shut herself inside the bathroom, safe from everyone’s gaze.

No one saw her twist the lock. No one saw her bang the mirror with her fist until it created a small hairline crack. No one saw her sink to the filthy floor—still cleaner than anything in Vanessa’s old house—and break into sobs, wondering what the hell she was going to do.

Twenty-Three

Mommy?” On Tuesday morning—five days after Piper’s attack—Arthur had climbed into Andrea’s bed and was lying next to her, stroking her hair. “Can I please, please, please go to school today?”

“No school today,” Andrea said, grateful that this was true. “Remember? You go Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays.”

Arthur went boneless, flopping over the side of the bed. “But why didn’t I get to go yesterday?” He stuck out his lip. “I miss Johnny and King. Can I have them over at least?”

“Maybe . . .”