“No problem, Annie. Really.” Steeley’s voice sounded impatient to end the call. “If he could just let me know how long he’ll be gone and where he left his lesson book.”

The buzz from the Sauvignon Blanc kicked in after she hung up. Annie refilled her glass and took it to the living room. She opened the curtains to look out on the backyard.

If Paul isn’t at work, where the fuck is he? She thought of her father-in-law, recovering from chemo and staying with Paul’s sister.

She clicked on the number. “Hey, Beth. It’s Annie. This too early?”

“Yeah, right. No, honey. We’ve been up since four.”

“Sorry to bother you, but is Paul there? We missed each other this morning, and he didn’t show up at school. Just trying to track him down.”

“Nope, not here. My experience is—and you probably know this, too—the guy’s driving somewhere. Mister Careful never picks up while he’s driving, even on Bluetooth. Try again in a few minutes. Tell the jerk to come by tonight for dinner. Dad wants a word. I’m making burgers.”

Annie hung up and tried Paul’s number again. This time she heard the phone’s ringtone coming across the room, from her husband’s briefcase lying beside the recliner. She crouched next to it and clicked open the latches. Paul’s phone lay atop a pile of student assignments. She turned it off and stared at it. He never went anywhere without his phone.

Beneath the student assignments lay her husband’s lesson plan. How could he teach the day’s classes without his plan? Under the lesson plan was a sealed manila envelope with no address. She felt something inside the envelope and tore it open. Out fell a thin, multicolored friendship bracelet—the kind teenage girls tie around their wrists. Attached to one end of the bracelet was a tiny plastic red heart. She shook the envelope, but it was empty. No note, no letter.

Annie dug deeper through the briefcase, not knowing what she was looking for. At the bottom, she found a photo. As she picked it up, she froze. She held it away from her body like an object arrived from another world. Without thinking, she crushed the photo, squeezing so hard her fingernails cut her palm. Then she shoved it into the pocket of the scrubs and pushed down until her fingers felt the silk of the panties crumpled at the bottom.

(ii)

(WEDNESDAY, 8:45 A.M.)

“No one’s good at surveillance,” retired homicide cop Tommy Woodhouse once told Frames. “It’s like saying you’re good at putting your pants on. You’re there to see something. The tricky part comes when that something isn’t what you thought it would be.”