When I came back out, Amanda was in a chair next to Henry, spooning yogurt into his mouth. He lapped it up happily and only half of it went across his cheeks.

Amanda gave me the side-eye. “Are you going to get yourself something to eat? Or maybe do something useful, like make coffee?”

“Sure. I’ll make coffee.”

I filled the coffeemaker to the rim and turned it on. I needed all of it. It was nice to have a simple task to perform. Then I didn’t know what to do with myself.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “You’re pacing like I’m in labor all over again.”

“Why was your phone next to the bed last night?” I asked.

“My phone?” She said the word like it was something foreign she’d never heard before.

“Yeah. It was on the bedside table. You never do that. You always plug it in across the room.”

“That’s why you seem agitated? My phone?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t know. I just fell asleep that way, I guess. Do you know how tired I am at the end of the day? I’m lucky to get my clothes off before I pass out. What’s really on your mind?”

“I don’t think I’m going in to work today.”

Amanda turned completely away from Henry and gave me her full attention. “You’re not going in to work today? You? Missing a day of work? What’s wrong?”

I barely heard her. I was scrolling through my phone again, checking for news. Finding nothing, I did something I almost never did anymore. I went out to the living room and clicked on the TV, thinking I might find breaking news there that they didn’t have online yet. It was almost six, and I knew a local morning show came on right then.

I waited while the hosts—a young blond woman and a chipper young man—chattered through some opening inanities about the weather and the blooming flowers and the approach of Easter. I wanted to yell at the screen and tell them to hurry up, that we didn’t need the happy talk. Just the news.

Then they transitioned, and the blond woman’s face switched from shining happiness to grim seriousness. She started talking about a suspected homicide in town, her brow furrowed as she related the facts.

“The suspected victim was twenty-seven-year-old Jennifer Bates, a resident of the Kingston Manor subdivision. . . .”

Jennifer’s face flashed on the screen, a vacation snapshot that showed her with a gigantic smile.