“That doesn’t sound like Zoya,” Mercy murmured. “She’s so responsible. What happened?”

Irina rolled her eyes. “By the time I called the school, she’d appeared, claiming ‘car trouble’ made her late. Then I remembered that she’d already left when I came downstairs this morning. She does that sometimes when she has a club meeting or needs to get study help from a teacher, so I didn’t worry at the time. But it was not car trouble that made her late.”

“How did you know she went to San Francisco?” Liza asked, suspecting the answer.

Irina’s chin lifted. “I can track her car,” she said without apology.

Liza held out both hands in a stop gesture. “You get no judgment from me. My mom would have done the same if we’d had a car to track.”

“Why did she go to San Francisco?” Mercy asked, then turned to Agent Rodriguez, who suddenly was very interested in the chocolate drizzled atop Liza’s bars. “Agent Rodriguez?”

Irina had also turned to stare at the agent. “What do you know?” she demanded.

He shook his head, then shoved a bar in his mouth. He shrugged, pointing to his lips as if to say he couldn’t talk with his mouth full.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Irina muttered. She took out her cell phone and tapped a number. “Geri? Hi, this is Irina. Is Jeffrey home?” She listened to whatever Jeff Bunker’s mother was saying, her brows rising again. “I thought he might be involved. May I speak with him? Thank you.” She looked at Mercy and Liza. “He wasn’t home when she woke up this morning, but was recently returned by the FBI with a guest in tow. One Cameron Cook from San Francisco.”

Agent Rodriguez rose from the table. “I’ll wait outside.”

Irina pointed at him, then the chair. “I’d appreciate it if you would stay.” She nodded at him when he complied, then cocked her head, listening to her call. “Yes, Jeffrey. This is Mrs. Sokolov. Why did Zoya take you to San Francisco this morning?”

Right to the point. That was just one of the things that Liza loved about Irina Sokolov. Liza pursed her lips to keep from smiling. It wasn’t funny, but . . . it kind of was.

Abigail tugged on Liza’s sleeve. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” Liza whispered, “but I think Zoya is about to get grounded.”

Abigail’s eyes widened, then narrowed contemplatively. “Then she won’t want her brownie.”

Liza snorted, covering her mouth with her hand, then let the chuckle escape when Irina pushed the plate in front of Abigail.

Abigail’s grin was triumphant. “Yes!”

“No,” a voice said from the kitchen doorway.

Abigail slumped as her father strode across the room. Pushing the plate away, he sank to his knees and pulled her into a bear hug. Abigail patted Amos’s hair. “I’m okay, Papa. See?” She opened her arms wide. “Not a scratch.”

Amos pretended to examine her arms, tilting her face one way, then the other. “Not a scratch,” he agreed, but his voice trembled. He looked to Mercy. “And you?”