Unlike me, Amanda managed to keep her desk clean and orderly. A place for everything and everything in its place. Files and cabinet drawers were labeled. Pencils, pens, and Sharpies were neatly arranged in a cup. Every office supply—stapler, Post-its, paper clips—was within easy reach and functional. More often than not, I couldn’t find my stapler. And when I pushed down on it, I’d find out it was empty.

Amanda’s laptop sat in the middle of the desk, a silver island amid all the clean space. I’d never gone on there without her permission. And even when I had permission, it felt strange. Sort of like—

Sort of like being in a stranger’s house when they weren’t home.

Or scrolling through a stranger’s texts and social media messages after they were dead.

I opened the lid of the laptop.

Her screen saver greeted me. A photo of Henry in his crib smiling like he knew the secret to a happy life. And a request for the password.

I knew it. Amanda had told me over a year ago, when she’d bought the computer, what the password was in case I ever needed it. I hoped she hadn’t changed it since then. If she’d changed it and hadn’t told me . . .

I entered the password. The name of her favorite book when she was a child along with the number she wore on the softball team in high school. WindWillow43.

It worked. Everything on her neatly organized desktop appeared to me. I sat down and used my finger on the pad to move the cursor around until I opened her text message app. I imagined archaeologists way in the future trying to decode our language of emojis and abbreviations. Our one-sentence and fragmentary communications. Would they find anything worth digging up?

I saw my name. Sam’s. Karen’s. Bill’s. Several friends’, and the name of Amanda’s cousin in Los Angeles.

But right at the top, clear as day: Steve.

I felt a little jab in my guts, a sharp twist of jealousy. The back of my neck where my skin met my shirt collar grew warmer. Sweat formed there.

I knew how Amanda had felt seeing those messages from Jennifer.

She and Steve had been talking just twenty minutes earlier. In other words, right before Amanda left the house, supposedly to get Henry. But really not.

So what was she doing?

I scanned the messages, and a few phrases jumped out.

Someone threatened this Jennifer.

Police can’t trace it.

Someone named Lily Rose. Do you know who that is?

Oh, God. I have to go.

Lily Rose? Threatened Jennifer?

Why did Amanda have to go once she read that name?

I remembered the other threatening messages from that account.

I entered Steve’s number into my phone and hit CALL as I started down the stairs.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE