Jim Morgan and Ingrid Wythe arrived just after eight a.m. Jim, in his sixties, in a light gray suit, neck and face golf-tanned; Ingrid, her mom’s age or a little older, tall and blond, toned by a trainer, dressed by a stylist. They all sat down in the living room and Jim explained that he had accessed Claudia’s credit card and found almost two thousand dollars in charges at Macy’s, another thousand at The Towers hotel in Times Square, and several hundred at a Bubba Gump restaurant.

“Bubba Gump in Times Square is literally the last place she would eat,” said Edie.

“I’ve got a call in to the hotel,” said Jim. “We need to know if Claudia was the one using the card. The charges stop after the cash withdrawal. I’ll call the bank as soon as we’re done here. Ingrid has some other suggestions.”

“Thanks Jim,” said Ingrid. She leaned forward. Ingrid and Jim were the only people in the room wearing shoes. Nathan and Gabe hadn’t left the house in days; even Michelle was disheveled. Her hair was clumped at the roots, shooting up at angles; her fluffy pink socks were gray with wear; she was getting a breakout of rosacea across her cheeks and upper lip.

“The hotel and the banks may have images of her on surveillance cameras,” said Ingrid, “though some places don’t keep the video more than a few days. We’ll see. We want to know if she came in with anyone, or if someone else was using the cards in her name.” She paused. “Jim told me about the video. I know this seems grotesque, but I’d like to see it.”

Nathan found a pair of headphones and inserted them into the phone, then handed it to Ingrid. Her parents averted their eyes. Ingrid watched with an unchanged expression of concentration, then took off the headphones and handed the phone back to Nathan.

“Do you have any idea when this was recorded?”

“No,” said Edie. “But the guy filming, the guy whose voice is loud, his name is Chad Drake.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “Jim mentioned a connection to Ridley Drake. We’re sure this is his son?”

“Yes,” said Edie.

Ingrid turned to Michelle. “I have to ask: When was the last time you spoke with Ridley?”

“Jesus,” muttered Gabe.

Edie almost felt sorry for her mother. What had she told Jim? And, I’m fucking the boy’s father.

“We texted yesterday morning,” said Michelle. “Before I saw that.”

“How close are you?”

Edie’s mom sighed, then leaned forward into herself, her hand on her forehead. “We’ve been in the same circles forever. It’s not love. Definitely not love.”

Edie looked up at her mom, who was looking at her dad. Her dad was looking at the floor.

“And the last time you saw him?” Ingrid asked.

“It’s been almost a week.”

“Is that typical?”