I put the book down quickly and rubbed my forehead.

I paused, realizing I couldn’t hear any distant chatter from Jack and Emily. Pushing myself to a standing position on my good leg and hoisting the books under one arm, I used my other to steady my balance as I made my way out of the stacks. As I got closer to the children’s area, I didn’t see either of them.

I called their names, moving faster throughout the library, thinking they had wandered to another section. But nothing. My heart pounding, sweat beginning to trickle down my back, I huffed and puffed around the stacks on my injured leg. Dark thoughts began to run through my mind, almost to the beat of the pain coursing through my ankle.

Where are they?

I have them, a voice seemed to whisper from the cobwebs of my brain. They are mine.

“Emily! Jack!” I screeched across the quiet library, ignoring the head snaps in my direction. A librarian looked up from the children’s desk, hand to her chest.

“We’re over here, Mom,” I heard Jack call from a distant corner.

I limped along toward his voice and found them, piles of books at their feet, snuggled into a beanbag chair. I put my hands on my thighs and exhaled.

“What’s wrong?” Emily asked as she slowly closed her book.

I shook my head and brushed my hair out of my face. “Nothing. I was just—nervous. Time to go.”

I saw Emily staring at the books in my arms, and I pressed them tightly to my chest, concealing the dark images on the covers. She frowned and walked toward the checkout desk.

“Oh, over here. Let’s do self-checkout,” I said. I didn’t want any more strange glances from the librarians. A limping mother who has a screeching panic attack in the library and then checks out books with titles like Blood and Dirt: Modern Demon Worship—I would get Child Protective Services called on me before we even reached the front door. I needed to pull it together, or at least project the image of someone who wasn’t slowly unraveling.

As we loaded into the car, I carefully set the books down on the passenger seat, silently praying that they held the key to bringing back my friend and protecting the rest of us.

CHAPTER
11

Yo, what in the fresh hell is that?” Jess hissed in my ear on Wednesday night as we stood huddled around Heather’s gray-and-white farmhouse table in her dining room.

I swatted at her outstretched pointer finger. “Stop. You have to be discreet. If she sees you making fun of something, our kids will never be invited to any birthday parties again.”

“Promise?” she said.

I glanced at the corner of the room, where she had pointed, and stifled a laugh. “It’s a maternity photo shoot picture.”

“Why would someone do . . . that?” she said.