“I do not feel it’s appropriate for him to be out of school,” Harold said.

“His mother has been kidnapped and maybe she’s—and you think going to school is the most important thing right now? Because I kind of thought it might be better to wait for some news.” I hadn’t really thought it through at all, but fucked if I was telling Harold that.

“I expect my grandson to be in school tomorrow. Especially during such a chaotic time, he needs routine.” Oh, now Harold was an expert on childhood psychology. “This is not an idle threat. If I call tomorrow and he is not in class, I will get my lawyer involved. You are not a custodial parent. You do not have the right to make the decision to keep him out of school.”

I took the phone away from my ear, because I didn’t trust myself not to curse or cry or yell. When I was calm enough, I put the phone back to my ear and said, “Of course. He’ll go to school tomorrow.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Goodbye.”

That’s what kind of an asshole Grandy Harold was. Not a drop of concern about LaReigne. She could be dead in a morgue drawer in Nebraska with pictures of her corpse on the ten o’clock news, and he would call me and say, “Be sure to take my grandson to school tomorrow, or I’ll have to get my lawyer involved.”

“Motherfucker.” I said it under my breath about ten times while I paced up and down in the front hall trying to get my temper under control.

“My lady,” Gentry said. He’d snuck up on me and was standing in the doorway. “Thou art troubled? Hast thou news?”

“No. I’m fine. And no news.” I didn’t want to get into it with him about how messed up everything was. I hadn’t noticed before, but the wood-paneled walls of the front hall were covered in framed photos of Gentry’s family. In the picture hanging next to where he stood, Gentry was an awkward teenager with long, shaggy hair. He had his head down and his arms crossed over his chest. Bill was sitting in a chair, and Charlene stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder. Trang was maybe five or six, and he looked like a grinning elf. There were two older kids, a boy and a girl, who looked like they might be Bill and Charlene’s biological children, because unlike Trang and Gentry, they were black.

A nice family. A happy family.

“Who’s this?” I said, pointing to the picture.

“My mother and father, and brother Trang—”

“I kinda guessed those. Who are they?” I put my fingers up almost close enough to touch the glass.

“She is my sister Janae, who is three years my elder. And he is my brother Carlees who is but one year my elder,” Gentry said. “He is a teacher in the city of St. Louis. She studieth to become a veterinarian.”

“That’s cool.”

“My father has declared that we shall have no television this night, but that we shall play games. Wilt thou join us?”

“Sure,” I said. My first choice would have been curling up in a little ball somewhere, but my second choice was definitely just pretending that my sister wasn’t maybe dead.

CHAPTER 13

Zee

   At Marcus’ school, I realized I didn’t know how drop-off worked, because I was always picking him up. I almost pulled in the wrong drive, and in the right drive, there was a sign that said NO PARKING, but I was already late. I got Marcus unbuckled and grabbed his book bag and the lunch Charlene had packed for him.

“You can’t park here, ma’am,” the school resource officer said. He came down the sidewalk with his gun belt rattling. I never knew what to think about that. Was Marcus any safer because a cop with a gun was on duty at the front door?

“I’m sorry. I don’t usually drop him off, so I don’t really know what I’m doing.” I gave the cop what I hoped was a friendly smile.

As soon as I got his book bag strapped on and his lunch in his hand, Marcus ran up the sidewalk to the front door. I was going to call him back and hug him, but the SRO was frowning about where I was parked, so I yelled, “I’ll see you at three-thirty!”

As I was pulling away from the school, my phone rang. Mom. I’d missed a call from her while I was getting Marcus out of the car, too.

“The police are here again,” she said, as soon as I answered.

“They came by again? Or they’re there now?”

“They’re here now.”

“What do they want?” I put on my signal and got into the turn lane to go to Mom’s house.

“I don’t know. I didn’t answer the door.”

I wanted to say, You can’t hide in your house like a turtle and hope this all goes away, but she’d pretty much done exactly that since Dad died. Instead, I said, “Okay, well, I’m on my way to your house, so I’ll talk to them.”

When I got there, two patrol cars were parked in the street, and a police van was parked at the bottom of the driveway. Two guys in suits and three uniformed cops were standing on the front porch. I think I was too exhausted from worrying, because I didn’t feel anything as I got out of the car. As I came up the sidewalk, though, I saw that one of the cops was holding a goddamn battering ram, which I guess they were planning to use to knock the door down. I broke into a jog, wishing I didn’t have to do the whole day on nothing but two stupid ibuprofen pills for the pain. One of the uniformed cops turned and held up his hand.

“Miss, you can’t be—”

“I’m her daughter. Is there a problem?” I said.

I’d thought it would be the police coming to give Mom bad news, but when the guys in suits turned around, it was the U.S. marshals, Mansur and Smith.

“Miss Trego,” Mansur said. “We’re a little concerned about your mother. We’ve been here almost twenty minutes, knocking on the door, and she hasn’t answered.”

“She’s fine. I talked to her on the phone. It’s hard for her to answer the door. She’s an invalid, okay? You met her.” I didn’t intend for it to come out like an accusation, but it was. They’d met her. They had to know how difficult it was for her to get up and come to the door.

“We’re going to need you to let us in.” Mansur had an ink stain on the pocket of his dress shirt, and I focused on that. On remembering that he was a federal marshal, but still just a person.

“Do you have some news for us?” I said, even though my mouth had gone totally dry. I mean, how could they not know? LaReigne was thirty and a petite blonde. The other woman, Molly, was fifty-something and a brunette. I could have looked at the hands for two seconds and known if it was LaReigne. As soon as I thought that, I was glad I hadn’t eaten any breakfast.