Ronnie opened her arms. There was a magazine, circulars, a coupon book for services she’d never use. As she was walking to the recycling bin, a flyer fluttered loose. It was a bulletin announcing missing children, the kind that used to be on milk cartons. The images showed dated pictures of cheerful youngsters and used facial recognition software to age the child ahead the number of years from when he or she had disappeared. A boy named Juan had gone missing when he was six—over ten years ago—and the projected teenage version of him looked nothing like that pudgy-faced little boy. Would Juan’s parents even recognize him if they saw him on the street?

Ronnie flipped the flyer over. On the other side was a little girl’s projected appearance—a baby-toothed smile, crinkly eyes, fat cheeks. Then she glanced at the picture of the girl when she’d gone missing—more than two years before. She was about two years old, with the cutest dimples, and big eyes . . .

Wait a minute.

Ronnie froze, registering the face staring back at her. Instinctively, she slapped her hand over the picture. No. Why was this here? Why had it shown up at her door . . . now?

Lane had gotten the door unlocked and was stepping over the threshold, murmuring his thanks to Mrs. Lombardo. “Daddy Lane!” Esme cried, rushing forward to greet him. “Did you hear there was a whoo-whoo at school today?” Esme had trouble pronouncing ambulance, so she said whoo-whoo instead.

Ronnie couldn’t go in yet. She peeled back her fingers to take one more look. The software that projected the girl’s looks two years into the future hadn’t gotten it right—her face was too round, her eyes set too far apart. It wasn’t like anyone would see Esme on the street and know. But there was something right about her lips. And also her . . . essence.

Ronnie’s gaze flicked to the details below. Taylor, read the top line. Ronnie had never liked the name. Esme wasn’t a Taylor Johnson. Last seen: Cobalt, Pennsylvania. Parents: Michael “Jerrod” Johnson, Father; Vanessa Johnson, Mother.

Sixteen

When Lauren first opened her eyes on Friday morning, things felt almost normal. She was in her bed. The same sound machine they’d had since before the baby was born played soothing ocean sounds. She smelled coffee brewing. The sun shone through the blinds.

Then it flashed back: Breaking into Piper’s office. Piper’s body on the ground. Blood everywhere. Everyone staring at one another in horror. And then that awful guard happening upon them. The way it must have looked, the three of them huddled over Piper’s body.