The hall was emptying out, mothers walking toward the door in pairs, others giving last-minute kisses and reassurance to reluctant kids. At the door to the three-year-olds class, a mother stepped away from her sobbing child, exchanging a helpless glance with the teacher. “I’m not sure I should leave her.”

“She’ll be fine,” the teacher assured her. “Really, go.”

The mom looked like she was going to burst into tears, and she caught Ronnie’s eye before she could rearrange her features. Ronnie quickly smiled reassuringly. “I get it,” she said. “I really do.”

The tip of the mother’s nose was red now. “Thanks. It’s so hard, you know?”

This could still be her community. Maybe these parents weren’t bad people—when it came down to it, they were all the same: worried mothers. Whoever had written that note, then, was not like the rest of them. Whoever had written that note needed to be exposed for who he or she was.

She started toward the door, shoving her hands deep into her pockets, frustrated that she’d come away empty-handed. Then, she spied a little alcove down the hall. She figured it led to a bathroom, but when she reached it, she realized it was a supply closet. The door was ajar. Glancing back and forth, she pushed it open with her toe. Inside were extra picture books, art supplies, and bins of stuffed animals and toys. A dangling string was attached to a switched-off lightbulb in the ceiling.

Ronnie slipped inside, then huddled behind the door, avoiding stepping on some big reams of drawing paper on the linoleum. Doors slammed. Down the hall, she heard a teacher say in a singsong voice, “All right, boys and girls!” Floating from another direction were the first few bars of a song from Frozen. Ronnie shifted her feet, feeling a deep sense of shame. She could just imagine one of the teachers flitting out to this closet to grab a stack of books or some modeling clay and—what? How would she explain this?

She immediately thought of the last time she’d been caught somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. That last night in Cobalt fled back to her. Things had been building for a while; Ronnie had an innate sense a crescendo would be soon. Even as she’d turned onto the street, she had a tickly sense something was really wrong.

She skidded into the driveway and entered the house through the garage. The den smelled like stale booze. A chair had been turned over. A lamp without a shade blazed an ugly yellow. Another fight, Ronnie had thought with terror. Then she noticed all the beer bottles. The little vials. Her heart sank.

“Vanessa?” she called out.

An appliance dinged in the kitchen, unattended. Then Ronnie heard whimpering sounds from the back bedroom. Esme.