She stepped back, adopting a powerful stance. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Bethany’s eyebrows rise. Ronnie knew how to stand her ground—or at least fake it, anyway. It helped that she knew she was capable of hurting someone, if it came to that.

She knew that all too well.

She changed clothes in the powder room. Threw her hair in a ponytail. Slid on a pair of rubber flip-flops. Once she buttoned the top button of her blouse, she didn’t look like the same woman she’d been five minutes before. “See ya,” she said to Bethany in the hallway, lobbing her a kind but indifferent smile.

She left through a side door and stepped into the bright sun. The street was empty, yet Ronnie glanced right and left, feeling a strange alertness. The last few weeks, she couldn’t shake the sense that someone was tailing her. She made it a point not to take clients anywhere near Raisin Beach—she ran too much of a risk of someone spotting her around town. But maybe someone she knew was nearby? Or, worse, maybe it was Jerrod. Maybe he’d found her.

The adjacent yards were empty; not a single car rolled down the road. Ronnie looked this way and that, her heart lurching and bucking. Jerrod’s not here, she told herself. He hasn’t found you.

She had to hold on to that.

•   •   •

Ronnie navigated her car—the very same one she’d driven cross-country more than two years before, the bumpers starting to rust, the muffler making a worrisome rattle—to the apartment she and Lane now shared. The complex was made up of about ten low-to-the-ground pink stucco buildings. At its center was a playground, a small patch of lawn, and a medium-size swimming pool, which Esme adored.

Lane’s car wasn’t in his designated spot, which meant he still wasn’t home from Silver Swans—the teachers had to remain behind for some staff meetings after the kids went home. Ronnie pulled into her own space and darted up the stairs to her door, suddenly seized by the familiar nervousness she always felt when she left Esme with a babysitter. It had been a while since she’d had to use someone, but now awful scenarios rushed through her mind: Esme is gone. Mrs. Lombardo stole her. I won’t even be able to go to the police.

When she threw open the door, there was Mrs. Lombardo, the downstairs neighbor, sitting on the blue floral couch watching Dr. Oz. And there was Esme on her knees in front of the coffee table, scribbling in a My Little Pony coloring book.

“Mommy!” Esme cried, leaping to her feet, running over, and throwing her arms around Esme’s neck. Ronnie felt the panic drain from her.