“Look, Bailey didn’t mean to be rude to you, but her father is missing and we’re just trying to find out why. It’s putting our family under a great deal of stress. Family is everything to us, as I’m sure you can understand.”

I motion toward the photographs lining the mantel above the fireplace—the Christmas shots of her children and grandchildren, the candid shots of her husband, their dogs, a farm. Several photographs of Elenor and, perhaps, her favorite grandchild, sporting some crazy streaked hair of his own. His in a shade of green.

“I’m sure you’d be the first to go to great lengths for your family,” I say. “I can see that about you. Please just think about it for a second. If I were sitting there and you were sitting here, I’m just asking you, what would you hope I’d do? Because, I’d try to do it.”

She pauses and straightens her dress. Then, miraculously, Elenor sits back down, pushing her bifocals higher on her nose.

“Let me see what I can do,” she says.

Bailey smiles in relief.

“The names can’t leave this room.”

“They won’t leave your desk,” I say. “We will figure out if there is someone who can help our family. That’s all.”

Elenor nods and pulls my list across the desk. Then she picks it up. She looks down at it, in her hands, as though she can’t believe she is doing this. She sighs so we know she can’t believe she’s doing this.

She turns to her computer, starting to type.

“Thank you,” Bailey says. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank your stepmother,” Elenor says.

Which is when an amazing thing happens. Bailey doesn’t cringe when I’m referred to that way. She doesn’t thank me. She doesn’t even look at me. But she doesn’t cringe, which feels a little like the same thing.

I don’t have any time to savor it though because my phone starts to buzz. I look down to see a text from CARL.

I’m outside your house, can you let me in? I’ve been knocking…

I look to Bailey, touch her hand. “That’s Carl,” I say. “I’m going to see what he wants.”

Bailey nods, barely acknowledging me, her eyes focused on Elenor. I head out into the hallway and text him that I’m calling him now.

“Hey,” he says when he picks up. “Can I come in? I’ve got Sarah with me. We were on a walk.”

I picture him standing outside our front door, Sarah in her BabyBjörn, wearing one of the enormous bows Patty loves to stick on top of her head, Carl using his walk with his daughter as an excuse with Patty—an excuse to come and talk to me without Patty knowing.

“We aren’t home, Carl,” I say. “What’s going on?”