Winnie did not gaze through the peephole as she normally did. She opened the door with a smile, ready for whatever quip Nigel would deliver.

At first she thought the woman was trying to sell her something. She was older, maybe in her sixties, with an expensive haircut, and had a determined look about her. Winnie mentally rolled her eyes; she had been meaning to get a No Soliciting sign to hang by the door. She straightened her face, trying not to look as put out as she felt. She had her own expensive haircut, and she felt confident as she gazed down at the woman.

“Can I help you…?” Obligatory words.

“My name is Terry,” the woman said. She tilted her head to the side to examine Winnie, who felt affronted by the once-over she was being given.

And then Terry spoke rapidly, saying words that didn’t fit inside Winnie’s world: a therapist named Juno Holland had given her this address; did Winnie know where her grandson was? Stepping out onto the front step to join the obviously distressed grandmother, Winnie looked up and down the street to see if she could spot a lost boy. It was not fully dark yet, and she could make out several small figures across the street in the park. As a mother herself, she felt anxious for the woman; she’d lost Samuel once in Greenlake Park, and it had been the worst day of her life.

“Is he missing? Have you called the police?”

But the woman looked right past Winnie into the house. She was staring at the row of family photos that hung on the wall. She was staring at Samuel.

“Your grandson,” Winnie said again. She had the urge to snap her fingers in the woman’s face; make her focus. “Do you need to use my phone?”

The woman—Terry—looked back over her shoulder at the park, and then nodded. She was a nice-looking older woman, and as Winnie led her inside, she could feel hard muscle underneath her button-down shirt. Yoga, Pilates, a tennis trainer—she recognized the Hermes scarf tied around Terry’s neck. A rich little boy was lost, she noted. In the foyer, she sat Terry down in the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

And then she dashed off to the kitchen for her cell phone, grabbing a bottle of water off the counter to take with her. When she rounded the corner, phone in hand, Terry was no longer in the chair. Her back to Winnie; she was studying Samuel’s third grade class photo, but when she saw Winnie, she made no move toward the phone.

“Here,” Winnie said, extending it to her. She’d taken the time to open it first, the keypad ready to dial 911.

“Ma’am…?” Winnie didn’t like calling women “ma’am”; women of her mother’s age especially hated it. “I’m sorry, Terry…”

“Your son, how old is he?”