She opened it quickly, the one hand she was using to operate the phone suddenly trembling with excitement. But as she read, her smile faded. The email was a reply to her original message, but Lauren wasn’t supposed to be the recipient.

Carson—

Get a load of this. I swear, these bitches get crazier every year.

—P

Nine

That same Thursday morning, Ronnie pulled into the Silver Swans lot right next to Lane’s silver Honda. Morning drop-off was in full swing. Parents stood on the blacktop unloading their kids. Mothers chatted, sipping Starbucks, making sure hair bows were straight and shoes were tied. They drove vehicles like Volvo wagons and Subaru SUVs and sleek little BMWs; there wasn’t a single rust spot in the parking lot save for Ronnie’s rotting Toyota with the taped-on side mirror.

“Guess what happened on Ponies today? You missed it ’cause you were in the shower.” Esme was still in a five-point harness car seat, and the straps cut across her shiny pink raincoat. “It was awesome.”

“Oh yeah?” Ronnie murmured absently, her gaze still darting across the parking lot. “What happened?”

Then her phone chimed. It was Andrea: We’re running late, she said. Won’t see you at drop-off. Sorry!

Ronnie gritted her teeth. She’d hoped to walk in with Andrea so she wouldn’t have to go in alone.

Her phone alerted her again—this time a ring. Bill, read the caller ID. On instinct, Ronnie hit Ignore, then felt guilty. She’d never ignored her boss before. Moments later, a text pinged. Now Bill was texting her, though at least the number didn’t come up with the business’s name.

Brett Ackerman asked for you again this afternoon, it read. He’s over on Elmore. You remember the address?

Yes, Ronnie typed quickly. On it.

But her cheeks were red as though Bill had been on speakerphone with the volume cranked to ten. It wasn’t as if any of the passing parents could see the text. It wasn’t like any of them knew.

After she deleted Bill’s texts—making a mental note of the time Brett Ackerman wanted her to arrive—she sat in the car for a beat, trying to figure out what to do. Her hands were trembling. Her gaze fell to Esme’s My Little Pony backpack on the seat. It felt like a ticking bomb. What if another note showed up today? This morning, as they’d had breakfast, she’d casually asked Esme a few questions. Was she excited about going back to school? Yep. Nobody had been mean to her, right? No. And how about her ABCs? Maybe you could show Mommy how you might spell a few words. Of course Esme didn’t have a clue. When she printed the letter E, it looked more like a garden rake. She had no concept of the letter Y whatsoever.