“Okay,” Whitney said, barely listening. Tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, she drove around the neighborhood a couple more times looking for another house with rosebushes lining the yard. Coming up empty, she groaned in frustration.

Where was Amelia?

Lauren’s seventeen. She drives.

Whitney’s mind reeled back over all her conversations with Amelia in the last few days, trying to remember if she ever specifically said she was picking her daughter up. Nope, she couldn’t recall ever coming up with a plan for how Amelia was getting home today. Whitney had just assumed she was picking her up, since that’s what she usually did.

But everything had changed lately.

Maybe Amelia was already home and Whitney was freaking out over nothing.

As she drove swiftly through the Sacramento streets, she pictured her daughter curled up in bed, fluffy white comforter wrapped around her body. Amelia often took a nap after a sleepover. That was the most likely reason she wasn’t answering any texts. She was at home asleep.

Yes, that has to be it.

Whitney couldn’t wait to get home and tell her what happened. Amelia would probably be mortified at first. But then she’d make fun of her, and they’d both have a good laugh before putting this entire weird day behind them.

When she reached their apartment complex, she quickly parked and hopped out. She was about to walk away from her car, when she remembered the groceries in the backseat. For a split second she contemplated grabbing one of the bags. But her need to see if Amelia was inside trumped anything else at this point. Groceries could wait. It wasn’t like they were going anywhere.

She raced up the stairs, making it to their front door in record time.

“Amelia!” Whitney tore into the apartment, dropping her purse and keys on the ground. The scent of French toast and syrup lingered. “Amelia!”

After sprinting down the hallway, she flung open her daughter’s bedroom door. Cold, stale air smacked her in the face. Amelia’s bed was made in a haphazard way, half the comforter spilling over to one side, pillows askew on the top.

Your room has to be clean before I take you to Lauren’s.

Amelia had groaned as she stared up at the ceiling as if complaining to God. Fine, she’d said, the n punctuated by an “uh” sound at the end, before slumping back into her room.

The pile of clothes that usually threatened to take over the floor of Amelia’s room wasn’t exactly gone, but at least she’d pushed it to one side. The desk in the corner was covered in jewelry and lotions. Whitney had no idea how she ever did her homework over there. Makeup lined the entire perimeter of her dresser. Sadly, it had been like pulling teeth to get her room looking this good.