For the first time since pulling into the driveway, I begin to feel less anxious. Maybe for the first time since Artie left me in Ohio, I can relax. The Parmalees will come home, I will be reunited with Mack, and the whole ugly episode will be over. I will thank them profusely. Now I wish that I could give them a reward, but I can’t, not really. I’ll send them something from Seattle, a year’s worth of coffee maybe. A Christmas card from Mack and me every year.

Jennifer has her back to me as she fiddles with the coffeemaker. “This is going to be very hard on them, on Alice especially. They’ve been shadow people ever since Stacy died, and Buddy—I’m sorry, Mack—has been a godsend. Even the fact that they’re out for a Sunday drive is a big deal. I guess you must have just missed them.”

“I called this morning. When did they leave?”

Jennifer doesn’t move for a moment. “A hour, maybe two. What time did you call?”

“Mitch? What time was it?”

“Eight, maybe quarter past.”

“I called and they left.” The panic bubbles in my gut. “They’ve taken my dog.”

“They wouldn’t do that. Maybe it’s something else, not a drive.”

“Please, just call them now.”

Jennifer fishes her cell phone out of her purse, thumbs a number, waits. “Voice mail. Alice must have her phone off.”

It is a déjà vu moment. “Try again, please.” Does everyone who has my dog keep their phones off?

Jennifer leaves a message. She speaks so quietly, I don’t really hear what she says.

“They’ve doted on him. Ed brings home a new toy practically every day, and he and the dog go to Lil’s every morning.”

“I know. The waitress told us. She slips him bacon.” I sip at the coffee I don’t want. Mitch is drumming the table, but when I look at him, he stops.

“Alice is taking him to class to learn how to be a therapy dog.” Jennifer spoons a little sugar in her coffee, stirs it gently. “He’s a real nice dog. I just…”

“What?”

“I don’t want to see them regress. Alice is smiling again for the first time in seven years.”

Seven years. My child has been gone seven years, too. “Well, I’ve had him for years, not days. I know how wonderful he is, but they can’t be as attached as I am.”

“No. Of course not.” She taps her spoon against the mug. “Let me call again.”

“Thank you.” I know about loss. I know about not knowing if your child is safe. But, thank God, I don’t know about losing a child to death. I can’t imagine how painful that is. A mother’s worst nightmare—trumping anything I have suffered.