He looked as though he might have a stroke or a heart attack. I gently placed my hand on his cheek. His face reddened slightly, but he didn’t move my hand away. I needed to handle the situation for Amelia’s sake. I needed to comfort Fritz and get him back to thinking straight. “This is so painful right now, but it won’t last long. We’ll find her.” A river of tears poured from his bright green eyes, down his face, and soaked his T-shirt all the way through, as if he’d jumped into a pool. I’d never seen so many tears. He needed my help. I leaned in toward him and kissed his lips very lightly, in an attempt to alter his frame of mind. He didn’t push me away. When I pulled back to look into his eyes and gauge his response, I was relieved to see some animation in his features. I tried to read his expression. It could have been shock, but I tended to think it was excitement. I felt that kissing him was the only way to shake him out of his state. Again I leaned toward him.

“Dad!” Natalie’s voice called from upstairs.

Fritz stood up with a start, his face bright red. I could tell how intensely he wanted me.

“Madeleine’s mom is taking me to chamber music,” Natalie called down. “She’s picking me up in five minutes.”

“OK, honey.”

Fritz motioned for me to stay where I was. He turned and ran down the hall and up the stairs. I said Amelia’s name in my head, then tried to find an image of her in my mind, as if my subconscious might give me information on her whereabouts. But even visualizing her face was difficult and painful.

On their library console table were several of the framed photos from Natalie’s birthday party: the one of Natalie with her balloon unicorn in a sterling silver frame. One of Amelia holding Natalie, kissing her daughter’s forehead. They resembled each other in that both had large eyes spaced far apart. Natalie’s hair was lighter. I remembered the original version of the photo. I’d edited Natalie’s image because it had lacked sufficient lightness and joie de vivre.

My gaze returned to Amelia in the photo. I closed my eyes to see if I could place a background with her face and discern any clues to her location. I felt so connected to her—almost like we were one and the same person—I ought to know where she was. But nothing came to me.

I opened my eyes again and compared Amelia to her daughter in the photo: Amelia was clearly playing to an audience. I doubted that she could identify the line between her performance and her life.