When Mia was born, the balance of their differing personalities served them well. Yes, Nora could schedule naps and measure formula and pack the diaper bag with butt cream and wet wipes and children’s Tylenol, but she couldn’t keep every onesie clean of stains or remember where to find the binkie when a colicky infant was screaming in her ear. Jack couldn’t keep track of what temperature the bottle should be, but he helped Nora let go of worrying over every little thing, and he also had the magical ability to calm Mia down, tickling her feet until her cries turned to giggles or rocking her in his arms and shush-shush-shushing her until she fell asleep. The baby whisperer, Nora called him.

Being the parent of a young child is all about survival. In those early years, Nora and Jack relied on each other—if one wanted to get some sleep or a shower, the other was there. But when Mia grew older, she didn’t need them as much, and as a result they didn’t need each other as much. They began to annoy each other more and more—and after Mia was gone, nothing seemed to bind them together, and they both slid into the extremes of their worst behavior.

In the middle of Mia’s bedroom stands a vacuum cleaner. It roars to life and Nora backs out of the room, erasing her footprints from the carpet as she goes. She does this for two reasons. The first is simple orderliness. The second is she dislikes the pulse of hope she feels every time she enters the room and spots tracks and wonders for a moment if her daughter has at last come home.

She closes the door slowly—then leaves the house and drives swiftly downtown to the station. Chives is waiting for her, sitting on the edge of her desk and drinking from an oversize mug that reads HUSBAND DADDY COP HERO. His eyes are dark-circled and his posture slumped.

“What?”

“Got news,” he says.

She shoos him off her desk. “What?”

“Open your e-mail.”

“What, what, what?” she says as she rolls her chair forward, shakes the mouse, logs in, and calls up her in-box.

Chives pulls the string of his tea bag and dunks it up and down.

“Normally you only drink tea in the afternoon,” she says.

He blows the steam off his mug and takes a sip. “Didn’t know my drinking habits were of such interest to you.”

“Why aren’t you drinking coffee?”

“Didn’t sleep so good last night. Feeling a little under the weather.”

“So you’re not only sitting on my desk with your dirty ass, you’re polluting my airspace with your germs?”

“Just open the e-mail.”

She and Chives are copied on a message from a detective stationed out of Bellevue. The subject line reads Look familiar?