Andrea hurriedly refolded the note and stuffed it into her back pocket. “Yep. Totally.”

But the drawing flashed in her mind, off and on, off and on, a neon sign. It was of a stick figure woman—tall, with long blond hair and two big blue dots for eyes, big feet and broad shoulders. It looked—well, it looked like Andrea.

But there was a big black X through the middle of the figure, too. And a word, in big block letters: NO.

Five

Lauren stood at the counter at Sarina Spa & Ranch, a sprawling resort on the ocean cliffs—there was no ranch in sight. Rumor had it that a fair number of celebrities visited this place for quick detoxes.

Graham had his hand cupped protectively over her forearm, then looked at the receptionist. “Thank you for taking her. I know you guys are usually really booked.”

The receptionist beamed. “Anything for Gracie Lord! We just love her!”

Lauren offered a clenched-teeth smile. Apparently, just by dropping Gracie’s name, she was able to bypass the line and receive a 120-minute deep-tissue massage. Because, you know, that was what all women get after almost wrecking the car on the freeway.

Last night, after work, Graham had walked through the bedroom door. Lauren had been in there, sulkily leaving Clarissa the nanny to deal with the baby by herself. She’d sat up, confused. “You’re home early.”

“Gracie said it was okay. Actually, here.” He held the phone outstretched. “She wants to talk to you.”

Lauren was racked with guilt, rehearsing all the ways she needed to apologize to her husband for being so irrational again. She was also spinning with paranoia because of the note in Matthew’s backpack. It was almost comical, like something out of a ghost story: You are not wanted here. What could someone have against her? The night in the kitchen crossed her mind—their screaming, the blankness, the police showing up.

No. No one knew. That was impossible.

“Um, hello?” she’d said into the receiver. “. . . Gracie?”

“Hey, Mama,” Gracie cooed in a low, sympathetic voice. “How’s it going?”

Gracie Lord was ten years older than Lauren, with an angular face and dark hair and a dry, masculine, unapologetic self-confidence. She reminded Lauren of Joan Jett. She’d probably been a cool girl in high school. And she had no filter: the first time Lauren met her, Gracie looped an arm around Lauren and asked her intimate questions about Matthew’s birth story. But before Lauren could answer, Gracie started in on the birth story of her own child—she was a single mother by choice—which included a third-degree tear that forced her to sit on a hemorrhoid pillow for months. Only cool girls in high school could talk about hemorrhoid pillows without shame.