“I know it has to be hard, but it’s getting better. It’s all getting better,” Pam affirms.

Crystal doesn’t know exactly what she’s talking about, but she chooses to believe her. It’s all getting better because it has to.

They’ve already been through worse and survived. That’s something. She wipes her eyes and pulls away, embarrassed. Pam’s curly red hair smells like strawberries. This close, she can see ill-placed makeup caked under a set of hazel eyes. She wants to demand she go home and scrub her face. She’s too young and pretty for makeup. She doesn’t need it.

“I’m sorry. I think I’m just going to go rest for a bit. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” Pam’s face remains kind, open, but she can tell she wants to say something more. Crystal realizes her mistake. Pam has now seen her at her worst. She has lost a bit of her power as the employer, but she can’t think about that now.

Crystal steps across the hall to her room and shuts the door. She silences her phone, flips on her fan, and crawls under the covers, fully clothed. Pam fusses in the next room then heads down the hall and says something to Savi, probably some nicer version of “Don’t bother your mother for a while.”

She waits for sleep. Finally, the whirring of the fan takes her away, but in the back of her mind, a warning scratches:

The truth is closing in.

27

BEC

Night has fallen.

I find myself at the local precinct for the second time. They don’t have a suspect. They don’t have the make or model of a getaway car. They don’t have a true physical description of the supposed kidnapper.

Women are called like cattle into the interrogation room. Not women. My close friends: Jess and Beth. Acquaintances: Ramona, Lanie, Barbara, Sandra. I wonder why Crystal isn’t here and then remember it’s all the women from the park they want to talk to first. They huddle and wait their turns, entering and exiting the sterile room wordlessly. I can tell they don’t know what to say. Neither do I. I’m normally so conditioned to fill silences to make others feel comfortable.

Not today.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The last police station I’d visited was in Chicago after Chris died. I’d come in to collect his belongings and to decide if I would press charges against the man who hit him. I wanted to, but I didn’t. The man hadn’t been drunk, as I’d suspected. He was texting, and by the time he looked up, it was too late. His life was already ruined—he’d killed a man. I didn’t want his money or for him to suffer a worse fate. I just wanted my husband back.

“Jessica Peters?”