But when they asked her to expound on that, she didn’t know what to say. Roger’s family didn’t have a clue about the secrets he was keeping, and it felt cruel to reveal them just to save herself. So she’d chosen to throw herself under the bus instead. It felt easier to say they’d been a couple, that she was just a rich, older predator, taking advantage of a high school kid. A liar. A sneak. A deviant.

Now, in this police station, Andrea chose to stay quiet about the drawing in Arthur’s bag. A lot had changed in her life, and she’d put a lot of measures in place to cleave her past from who she was now—Jerry had helped with a lot of it. But if someone wanted to figure it out, maybe they could. The less she was in the spotlight, the better.

Back in the present, the squad vehicle hit a pothole, jostling Andrea from her seat. After a few more turns, they were at the school, which looked beautiful in the low light and with all the waving palms. The parking lot was surprisingly empty. Andrea’s car was parked all alone on one end, and she spied Ronnie’s and Lauren’s, too. But there were no swarming cops, no nosy reporters. The wind swished quietly. Wind chimes banged together. Finally, the cop deigned to lower the music and glanced at her in the rearview.

“Mighty nice for a nursery school,” he said.

Andrea shifted her weight. What was she supposed to say, thank you?

The cop’s posture seemed rigid, tense. She found herself stiffening, too, afraid he might lash out, but he didn’t. The moment the car was in park, and the officer opened the back door for her, Andrea ducked her head, and hurried to her own car as if she was fleeing the paparazzi. She barely recalled the drive home, and when she hurried up her house’s front path, her fingers shook as she tried to unlock the front door. Mercifully, her door swung wide that very instant. Martina, the babysitter, held the knob, her face sheet-white.

“Where’s Arthur? What’s wrong?” Andrea asked.

There was something unreadable about Martina’s expression. But before Andrea could ask, there was a small sniffle down the hall. Arthur stepped out from around the corner. He looked at Andrea curiously, almost as though he wasn’t sure what to say to her.

“Where were you?” he asked in a tiny voice.

“It’s okay, baby,” she said. “I’m okay.” She wrapped him in her arms. But she could feel the babysitter still fidgeting on the periphery, and she turned back to her. “What is it?”

“It’s someone named Cynthia Vandermeer?” Martina whispered, her gaze sliding toward the kitchen.