I missed Lena. I missed knowing she was only one house down, that any moment of doubt or fear could be brushed away by her quick laugh, that I was never really on my own because I had a Come right over, I’m on my way, Let’s do it kind of friend. Now I didn’t even know if she was dead or alive, a murderer or a victim or both.

I set Grace down on the quilt my mother had made her and tapped the stuffed play arch to make it swing. Then, crisscrossing my legs like a child, I sat next to her and tried to think. I’d need spackle to cover the holes left where cameras used to be. And paint. Was there paint in the garage? Even if there was, the heat had probably spoiled it. Maybe I should get the whole house painted. My breath was coming quick and shallow.

Despite the midday sunlight streaming in through the window and Grace kicking and cooing beside me, I wrapped my arms tightly around myself. How could we stay here? Maybe we could start over again somewhere new. We could get a cottage with a ready-made garden, Michael could telecommute, maybe we’d pick a place close to my parents. My eyes were squeezed shut, but that didn’t stop the tears from running down my cheeks.

We couldn’t sell this house, not so soon after buying it. We couldn’t afford to. And who else would want it after what Brady had done?

Then I heard something. A tentative knock on the front door, not the banging I might have expected. Michael had already disconnected the doorbell. I’d suggested one of those video doorbells, but as soon as I did, I realized we’d never be able to trust any camera-related item in our home again. The police had taken Grace’s baby monitor, we’d taped over the cameras on our laptops, and Michael had smashed our Alexa with a shovel and thrown the shattered pieces in the garbage.

The knocking paused, as though someone was listening for a response, then started again. I didn’t get up. No one I knew should be coming to the door. The reporters weren’t allowed on our front step. And even the police called first.

Looking down at my phone, I saw I had received a message, but I’d muted calls and notifications. Elizabeth had texted me: Are you free? And then fifteen minutes later: Coming over. Bringing lunch.

The knocking stopped, but I leapt to my feet and raced to the door, jerking it open just as she stepped off our porch. “Wait, sorry, I didn’t see your text. Come on in.”