He knew I was right. I could see it in his eyes.

“I have to call Max,” I said. “I have to go over there.”

“You can’t. Any contact could be seen as harassment. It could be used against us in court.”

“But if Freya is dead . . .”

“But if she’s not . . .”

Neither of us spoke for a few moments, the weight of what Freya may have done settling on us. Finally, I said, “Low might know something.”

Brian nodded. “It’s worth a try.”

But Low had been banished, she said, when I phoned her. “I don’t know what’s going on with her. She wasn’t coping. She was freaking out. But when I tried to help her, she sent me away.”

“Do you think she would . . . kill herself?”

“She talked about it. A lot. I didn’t think she really meant it. . . .” I heard Low sigh. “I’ll try to talk to Max. I’ll keep you posted.”

And so, we waited.

“We’ll know the truth, soon enough,” Brian said. “Small towns like to talk.”

But that day passed, with no answers and no whispers. And then another. Low didn’t respond to my texts. I didn’t reach out to Max. I convinced myself that Freya was fine. Her Instagram post was just a cry for attention. She was being overly dramatic, as was her habit, manipulating people into worrying about her. I screenshotted the post to use as evidence of her instability in our custody fight.

It was on the morning of the third day, when Brian and I were having toast and coffee in our pajamas, that a vehicle crunched down our drive. Visitors to our home were rare in general, and even more rare at 6:45 a.m. We both moved to the front of the house and peered out the window. Crawling toward us was Max’s black Range Rover.

My heart was in my throat as I watched the big athlete get out of the vehicle and walk around to the back doors. He moved slowly, like he was in pain. Or in mourning. Or both. Reaching into the back, he withdrew a bucket car seat. And in it was our beautiful baby.

“He brought Maggie,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Brian said, practical and cautious. “We don’t know why he’s here.”

I hung back as Brian opened the door and ushered Max and the baby inside. Max had a bulging diaper bag on his shoulder, and my chest fluttered with hope. There would be no need to pack so much gear for a short visit.

He eschewed pleasantries. “Freya’s gone,” he said.

Brian’s eyes flitted to mine. Then he said, “Gone where?”

“She just disappeared.” He swallowed. “The police think she jumped off a cliff into the ocean.”