Imani forced herself to step down. Her body buzzed as if she’d fallen into a pool of carbonated water and oxygen bubbles were launching off her every pore. She grabbed the banister to steady herself, held her breath, and strained to hear.

A cabinet shut. “Imani?”

Philip’s voice recalled tires on a worn road. It was gravelly and hoarse from the day, yet still familiar. Still her husband’s.

She descended the remaining steps and entered the narrow kitchen. Light from a far window illuminated the right side of Philip’s face, highlighting a deep-set eye, heavy frown line, and pale skin glistening with sweat. He hovered over the cement countertop, a scotch glass in one hand.

The irony of chefs was that they often ate like food was irrelevant. In spite of possessing a palate that could detect a grain of salt in a spoonful of sugar, Philip would inhale cold leftovers while standing in a corner. At the restaurant, he often wolfed down the trimmings of whatever was on the menu: cod fish tacos filled with the remnants of skinny tail pieces or shredded beef sandwiches made from less-than-prime cuts. Philip didn’t take time to dine unless he was sampling the competition.

He also rarely treated his family to homecooked meals. After spending all day in a professional kitchen, her husband couldn’t bear to waste time waiting for a stove to reach four hundred or working with a pan that no longer evenly distributed heat. When the family ate at home, it was Imani’s efforts that they consumed, most often fashioned from a combination of store-bought shortcuts and online recipes.

“There’s takeout pizza in the fridge,” Imani said. “It was all I could do to order.”

Philip stepped forward as her voice broke on the last word. A long sinewy arm extended, offering to pull her into safety and comfort. She refused to accept it. Philip had left her alone to deal with the disappearance of a woman who might as well be her sister and console their children about the loss of “Uncle Nate,” all the while caring for Melissa’s grieving daughter. He’d faced a choice between helping her through a harrowing time and attending to his business. He’d chosen the restaurant. Again.

“Babe, come here.”

Imani hugged her torso, pulling her sweater tighter around her midsection. “The kids are asleep.” Her tone betrayed her disappointment more than her exhaustion. “I passed out sometime after cleaning the kitchen. I don’t know when. Since the police came, I’ve been operating in a daze.”

Philip’s outstretched arm retreated into his chest. He set down the drink and unbuttoned the collar of his chef’s jacket. “The cops were here?”

“They wanted to question Ava about whether she’d seen anything.”

Philip unhooked another button. “Did she?”

“I guess she was sleeping with a sound machine on. She has no idea what happened or where Melissa could be.”