As Imani stormed down the sidewalk, she scanned articles on her cell for any mention of Melissa’s last known whereabouts, trusting her fellow New Yorkers to dive out of her distracted way. As far as she could tell, the papers didn’t have any info. The articles only said that police were “actively looking” for Mrs. Walker. No one in law enforcement had been quoted expressing concern for Melissa’s safety.

Imani considered the implications of that as she crossed the street to St. Catherine’s gleaming limestone facade. Everyone in the area knew the beaux arts building. The school was something of a beacon for bourgeoisie Brooklynites seeking a straight path for their kids from nursery school to America’s top universities. She’d lobbied hard for Vivienne’s and Jay’s acceptance, pledging to volunteer for committees in lieu of providing donations that she couldn’t afford.

Imani jogged up the steps to the iron double doors, hit the buzzer, and then faced the screen above it, identifying herself. A sharp click announced that she’d been recognized. As she entered the lobby, an unseen conversation, punctuated with laughter, bounced off the ionic columns and double-height ceilings. Its youthful pitch raised the baby hairs on Imani’s neck. Children’s voices didn’t seem to belong in St. Catherine’s operatic vestibule. Of course, that had likely been the reason for the school designing such an entrance. St. Catherine’s wanted its students to grow accustomed to adult spaces so that they’d be able to hold court in them later.

The main office sprawled behind glass walls. Ava was visible through them. She sat in front of a long mahogany desk, facing someone out of view. Seeing her was to look at a youth-filtered version of her mother. The teen possessed the same wide-set eyes and, above her mask, the beginnings of the same snub nose. Her blunt-cut bob had been styled by her mom’s hairdresser. Ava’s age softened the photogenic angles so prominent on Melissa’s face, but it would only be a matter of years before the girl’s full cheeks and round chin pinched to her mother’s heart shape.

Imani’s vision blurred. She loved Ava as she did her own nieces and nephews, which was to say that she wanted the girl’s life brimming with joy and success. But that love—real as it may be—did not make Imani family. Some messages should only be delivered by blood.

Melissa had chosen her in the event of an emergency, however. Imani took pride in that, the same way she’d always felt a kind of puffed-up satisfaction in her status as Melissa Walker’s closest confidant. That pride, perhaps more than her love, enabled her to pull back the door, despite the stabbing pain in her chest. It propelled her across the room, prepared for whatever fight would be required to protect Melissa’s daughter.