“What about Allie?” his dad asked, holding the rice container but doing nothing with it.

“Hasn’t seen Linnie all week.”

“Ashlyn?”

“Same.”

The father set down the container and asked quietly, “Kyle?”

Sam made a face. “I even called him.”

A silence fell. Maggie easily recognized its tone: awkward embarrassment. Seemed like she caused this feeling wherever she went last year. Tell us what happened—tell us everything, the people who were supposed to be helping her would say. Then afterward, in expression if not words, Shit, did you have to tell us everything?

She forked a piece of broccoli and dragged it across her plate. Adults raised kids to tell the truth, speak up, spill the beans. But they didn’t mean it. Not always. A lot of times, people shied away from confessions—worked hard, in fact, to dismiss or ignore them. What they really wanted to hear was a confirmation of what they believed in or hoped for or needed. Maggie thought about Sam’s assessment of his daughter: never afraid. How often had he reinforced that quality in his daughter? You’re a tough one, aren’t you, Kate? Maybe it was his way to make sure she’d be more like him and less like her mother. Whatever Linnie was or wasn’t, Maggie couldn’t say, but she guessed resilience wasn’t her strong suit.

Mom broke the lull. “Want me to hold your daughter so you can eat?”

Her mother’s offer made Maggie glance at the sleeping kid and inwardly shudder. Better you than me.

“Thanks,” Sam said, “but I couldn’t eat a thing.”

Neither could anyone else by the looks of it. Aunt Wren gave his arm a pat. “Try not to stress. This isn’t the first time she’s … gone away for a while.”

Sam ran a hand over his head, went back to his eyes, and rubbed them hard. “Never like this, though—packing first, and not just a comb and her toothbrush. A picture of Kate. It freaks me out.”

Thomas put both hands flat on the table. “I think it’s time you and Linnie called it quits.”

Sam glared at his father. “How the hell can we? She’s missing.”

“You know what I mean. It’s not working, buddy.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, a person either closing down or taking a hit, absorbing it. Maggie couldn’t tell which.

More gently, Thomas said, “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I owe it to her.” Sam put his face in his daughter’s hair. Softly, “You know how I feel about this one. She means everything to me. But look at what having her cost Linnie.”

“We could say the same for you,” Thomas said.

“Well, not exactly,” Wren said slowly. “At least Sam was able to finish high school.”

“Linnie could have gotten her GED,” Thomas snapped.