“I think it’s time to call the police, Whit,” Natalie said.

Whitney glanced at her watch, reading the time. “Don’t you have to wait twenty-four hours to report someone missing?”

“I’ve heard that, but I’m pretty sure it’s a myth.”

Whitney’s mouth dried out. The idea of calling the police made this seem too real, as if she was admitting that something terrible had happened. She wasn’t ready to do that. Surely, Amelia hadn’t taken off or met with foul play. She’d be back soon, right? “First, I need to talk to Becca again. I get the feeling she knows more than she’s sharing.”

“Has she called back yet?” Natalie asked.

Taking out her phone, she checked her messages. Nothing.

“No.”

“Call her then. Find out what she knows and then we’ll take it from there.”

Nodding, Whitney turned away from Natalie. She was grateful her friend couldn’t read her thoughts. How could she ever think Natalie would manipulate her? And for what purpose? Natalie was as genuine as they came. But old habits die hard. And Whitney wasn’t used to trusting people. But Natalie had never given her any reason not to.

As the phone rang, she stared into the soothing, turquoise water of the pool.

11

FIVE WEEKS
BEFORE DROP-OFF

THE EMAIL CAME in the early afternoon. It was from Amelia’s principal. A kid had come to school that morning with a knife. He’d been detained, his weapon confiscated. The school felt confident the threat had been taken care of.

Whitney wasn’t so sure.

Images from news reports she’d watched over the years of kids running from their schools, hands over their heads, played like a montage in her mind.

Her skin crawled. Her body buzzed.

She was at the warehouse, shooting photos, but she couldn’t concentrate. Amelia only had a couple hours left in her school day, and she was getting good grades. What would it hurt to skip out a little early? Besides, they’d hardly spent any time together lately.

Abandoning work, she drove to the high school. It wasn’t far from the warehouse. Only about fifteen minutes. After parking, she made her way into the office and headed toward the attendance clerk. The scent of paper, pencil shavings and musty carpet brought her back to when she was in high school.

Mrs. Pruitt glanced up, frowning. “Ms. Carter?” She said it like a question. Like she was surprised to see her.

“Hi, Mrs. Pruitt,” Whitney said. “I need to pull Amelia out of class, please.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “But...Amelia’s not here.”

Heat snaked up Whitney’s back. “What do you mean?”

“She never came to school today.”

“Are you sure?”