I needed to explain that to her, but I didn’t know how. Kyle. The strange man in her house drinking her liquor and looking for Blake.

Crying over Jennifer.

Before I could, my phone rang. Amanda.

Oh, good, I thought. “I have to take this. It’s Amanda.”

When I answered, she didn’t greet me. She spoke in a rush, her voice clipped and panicked.

“You need to come home right now, Ryan. Right now.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Sam came with me.

I’m not sure how much of a choice she had. When I heard Amanda’s voice and the panicked edge in it, I ended the call and started driving. Thoughts of letting Sam out of the car so she could go back to her life were secondary. Only after I’d made the first couple of turns did I think about it and turn to her.

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to take you back?”

“No, I’m going. I want to know she’s okay.”

We remained mostly silent the rest of the way. I concentrated on the road, my hands gripping the wheel until my knuckles hurt. The sound of rushing air through the window I’d kept open filled the space. Before I hung up and started driving, I’d asked Amanda twice if she was okay, and she just repeated her request.

Her order, really.

Come home. Come home.

Right now.

My mind swirled with possibilities. Henry hurt. Amanda sick. The police returning. Armed with an arrest warrant. Evidence of my presence in Jennifer’s house.

I didn’t care. They could take me away. They could end it all, as long as Amanda and Henry were okay. Unhurt. Safe.

I expected to see a dozen cop cars or crime scene vans when I turned down our street, but everything looked quiet and orderly. As placid and calm as any other day in the neighborhood. Shining houses, the windows reflecting the sunlight. The trash cans put away, the flowers starting to bloom. A place for everything and everything in its place.

I parked behind the house, stopping just outside the garage, and used my key to let myself in the locked back door.

“Amanda. Where are you?”

I heard Sam’s footsteps behind me. She followed me into the kitchen, closing the door. I told her to lock it, to turn the dead bolt in case trouble was coming along in our path.

“Amanda?”

Footsteps on the stairs, squeaking against the wood. Amanda appeared. She was dressed—jeans, sneakers, a long-sleeved T-shirt advertising the Pig. She looked ready for action. Her cheeks flushed, her hair pulled back.

“Thank God, it’s you,” she said.

“Are you okay? Where’s Henry?”

“He’s upstairs. Asleep. Yes, I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“Are you hurt? Either of you? Just tell me that. I need to know that.”

“No, we’re not hurt.”