“But I want to be able to see her sometime,” Janelle is saying. “I want her to have people who will love both of us, you know?”

He looks at her, forgetting that she can’t read his thoughts. She doesn’t see the yes that’s running through him, pinging his nerve endings. She doesn’t know yet that he could love her baby and love her, too.

The silence in the room roars in his ears. It’s like the time at YMCA camp when he was at the top of the diving board, staring down at the water so impossibly far away. Everybody else had already dived, and it was his turn. He wanted so badly to turn back, to crawl down the ladder. But the longer he stood there, the clearer it was that he was going to have to dive. It was as though he was being pulled toward the water by a force that was stronger than any fear he had. But that moment before the dive—now that was the moment. When you could still turn back, but you knew you weren’t going to. That’s when the courage attached itself to you.

That’s what this is.

“Janelle,” he says quietly. He has to interrupt their conversation. Both sets of eyes turn to him, questioning. “I need to talk with Marnie, but let me just ask you something . . .” he begins.

And then he says the thing he needs to say. The thing that’s going to change his life.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

PATRICK

Later, he’ll wonder why he didn’t see the whole thing coming. He’ll go over the day in his mind, the way people always do after a tragedy or a near-tragedy. “What were the signs I missed?” they ask themselves. “Why didn’t I look a little more closely?”

But for now, the morning is just a regular morning, perhaps even a happier than normal morning. He made a huge decision last night, and he still feels the high of possibility. He makes breakfast for Fritzie and himself—toast and oatmeal. The toast does not fly out of the toaster and land on the floor, which makes him smile. Also: Fritzie gets herself completely dressed all on her own, and she comes out of her room on time with her backpack already filled up with everything she needs for the day.

She has her homework, and she’s brushed her teeth, and she has her pencils and her notebook, and her phone, and her shoes are tied. She shows him that she’s even wearing matching socks. She has a big smile on her face. When he lifts her backpack off the table, when it’s time to leave, he says, “Whoa, this is heavy.”

Later, that will be a clue.

Another clue will be that when the bus comes rumbling down the street, she clings to him for a long moment. She kisses him on both cheeks, and then she does a butterfly kiss, where she flutters her eyelashes against his eyelashes.

And when she gets on the bus, she sits by the window and looks down at him, waving and smiling. “Thank you, Patrick!” she yells out the window.

Thank you?

He walks back to the house, taking out his phone while he walks. It’s time to get Marnie back, and he is so ready.

He’s decided to start off by texting her. Funny, humble, clever texts. That’s the way he won her over in the first place, so it’s bound to work now. She’ll see that he’s back to being his old self and that he loves her. Then he’ll beg her to come back home, where he will show her how much he’s changed.

Marnie, he types. There are people here in Brooklyn who are not meeting their soul mates because you are not here to run across the park (or restaurant, or wherever) and introduce them. Mayor is declaring state of emergency. #LoveEmergency

There is no answer. Of course there’s no answer. It’s the stupidest text ever.

Ten minutes later, he writes: That didn’t sound like what I meant to say. The truth is that the #LoveEmergency is happening in our kitchen.

Nothing. Nada. He types a heart and sends that.

He makes himself a cup of coffee, does some knee bends and boxing moves. Feeds the cat and dog. Washes up the breakfast dishes. Stares out of the window. Wonders if she’ll want to get one of those deluxe strollers, or if she’ll want the tiny, foldable kind that looks like an umbrella. That is just one of hundreds of discussions they’ll have.

He types: (Clearing throat here, beginning again.) I miss you so much. I don’t think I can go on without you. People here in this house think eight weeks is too long without you. #Me #Fritzie #Bedford #Roy

It may sound selfish, but we voted and we think we need you more than your dad does at this point, he types. That was risky. Maybe her dad has had a relapse.

And anyway she’s not going to answer him. She’s mad. She may be actually done with him.

I love you, and I’m sorry, he writes.

But now he has to stop this. Step away from the phone. But he can’t help himself from typing one more:

Please forgive me.

He slips the phone into his pocket, and then to his surprise, it makes a beeping sound, and he leaps in midair. Feels his pulse quicken. There’s a voice message from a missed call. He can’t imagine how he missed a call when he’s been standing right here, holding the thing in his hand. But there it is. He’s shaking as he presses the buttons to hear the message. It’s got to be her.

But it’s not her. It’s the Brooklyn Kind School. Maybelle’s voice. “Hi, Patrick. Just wanted to check in with you this morning to see if Fritzie is sick again. You didn’t call in this morning to report her absent. Sure hope she’s not having another bout of flu. Let her know we miss her.”

And that’s it: he thinks he might die right then and there.

Fritzie didn’t show up at school, and nothing that has ever happened to him before has prepared him for this moment. The air has gone out of him.

His fingers punch in Marnie’s phone number, and to his surprise, she answers.

“Patrick, what in the hell is going on with you? These texts!” she says. Not even “hello.”

“It’s Fritzie,” he says, all in a rush. “She never made it to school today. I put her on the bus, and then Maybelle called and said she isn’t there.”

Marnie is silent for a moment. “Is this for real?”

“Yes! God. Yes.”

“Listen. Call Maybelle. Maybe there’s a mistake when they did the attendance. That must happen sometimes. Don’t panic yet.”

Right. Of course, he thinks. He hangs up and calls Maybelle, who says she’ll make sure and call back—and sure enough, she calls back five minutes later and tells him there is no Fritzie at Brooklyn Kind School today.

“Where might she have gone?” she asks him. “She’s impulsive, so we should try to think of something she might have decided on her own.”

“I’m calling the police,” he says, and Maybelle says, “Right. That’s a good idea.”

He gets off the phone and thinks to call Fritzie’s cell phone first. His breathing matches each thrumming sound as it rings. Two times . . . three times . . . four . . . five . . . There’s no answer, which of course there wouldn’t be, because most likely the kidnappers who have taken her have thrown her phone into the East River to hide any evidence. He thinks he’s going to throw up.

Marnie calls him back. “So? Is she at school after all?”

“No. She’s not.”

“Okay, Patrick. I think you should call the police. And we have to think good thoughts. Not go into a huge panic. This is Fritzie, after all. She’d fight off anybody who tried to kidnap her. She’s most likely had some crazy idea and has gone off to do it—”