“What were you doing?” he whispers. He rubs his thumb against her cheek.

“I just wanted to find Marnie for you.”

He pulls back and looks at her face. “You were trying to get to Marnie? I thought you were trying to go to Italy.”

“No. I wanted to go get Marnie back. For you.” She looks down at her fingers and starts pulling at them. “You weren’t going to get her to come back. You know you weren’t.”

“Ahhh, Fritzie, that wasn’t your job. Not your job at all.” He takes her hand. “You—you scared me so much. I’ve been out of my mind with worrying about you! You know that, right? I was terrified when I heard you’d gone to the airport.”

“I had to do it.”

“No, you didn’t have to do it. You should have told me how you felt. We’re a team, remember? We agreed to talk everything over. How did you think I was going to feel when I discovered you were gone?”

“I knew you’d be worried, but then it would all work out okay because Marnie would call you and say I was there with her, and then we would come back together.”

“No,” he says. “That’s not how that works.” He sits back on his haunches and looks at her.

“Are you gonna keep me?” Her eyes are enormous, all black pupils, boring into his.

“Am I going to . . . keep you?”

“Yeah. Are you gonna take me back home with you and keep me?”

“Fritzie.” Her face is smeared with snot and tears and something that he hopes is granola pieces. “Of course I’m going to keep you. Did you think I was going to leave you here?”

She sticks her fingers in her mouth. “I thought you might be so mad at me.”

“Look at me. I don’t get mad. And I wouldn’t ever be that mad.”

“Yes. Patrick, do you remember when you first met me, and you didn’t love me? You didn’t want to keep me, and I was your daughter, but you didn’t want me there.”

He shakes his head, runs his hands through his hair, entertains an irrational hope that the cop isn’t hearing all this. “Yeah, well, I’m—Fritzie, wait. You really thought I’d just leave you here at the airport?”

“Marnie loved me, and I miss her, and you miss her, and you were not doing it right, Patrick. You know you weren’t saying the things to get her to come back!”

“Never mind all that. Did you get a plane ticket for this, or were you just going to charm your way onto the plane?”

“Yes. I had a ticket. The policeman took it.”

“But how—how did you get it? You’re eight.”

“On the computer. I saw her do the buying on the computer, and I went in and did it, too.”

“On her credit card . . . ?”

“I saw that in her drawer.”

“Oh, Fritzie.”

“I know. That was bad, wasn’t it?”

“Not the best, I guess,” he says. He lets out a long breath, tries to think of what to do.

She’s chewing on her lip, looking around the police station. “The dog here is pretty nice.”

“Yeah.” He looks over at the German shepherd lying ominously on the floor, pretending to be resting but obviously at high alert. If Patrick made one false move, he has no doubt that dog would have him in its jaws. Leave it to Fritzie to have made friends with it. He stands up and his knees make a creaking sound. “Well, let’s get out of here. See what we have to do to get them to release you.” He hopes this next part is going to be easy, but he doesn’t hold out a lot of hope, knowing what he does about airports, security, rules, and children’s welfare.

“Does . . . Marnie know?” she says. “What I did?”

“Yeah. She knows. She’s already got a ticket to come home tonight.”

She claps her hands and then evidently remembers she’s on shaky ground and says meekly, “Is she mad?”

“Nobody’s mad. You act like we’re these angry monsters. We’re shocked, yes. But we’re glad you’re safe. We were scared. There’s a big difference.”

The police officer comes over. Officer Pettigrew, it says on the tag. “Quite an adventurous day for you, missy,” he says. “You’re lucky to have this guy as your daddy, I’ll tell you that.” He shakes his head, and Patrick’s afraid they’re now going to have to hear tales of things Officer Pettigrew has seen in this job, but at the last instant, Pettigrew seems to think better of it. Patrick knows he’s probably relieved that this particular story has an okay ending: nobody’s raging, the kid is wanted, and security managed to do its job and not let her fly across country unaccompanied. Nevertheless, for a moment Patrick fears that there is going to be other questioning, talk of fraud and child neglect—who knows what could be drummed up?

And here it comes. “Sir, I’ll just need to see your identification and the birth certificate of the child. And then you can sign these forms.”

He gets the birth certificate out of his pocket and then remembers it’s not going to have his name on it. He starts a bumbling explanation about how he’s not married to the mother—but the cop looks around and then quietly says it’s okay. “I can see you two belong together. Same eyes and hair. Same blubbering tears.” He smiles and pretends to wipe away nonexistent tears from his own face.

Patrick opens the envelope and hands him the birth certificate anyway . . . and there, on the line where it says Father, there he sees his own name. Typed there. Patrick Delaney.

And just like that, there’s a crack in the awful, and he feels the flood of . . . something . . . love, maybe, hope . . . rushing in.

Fritzie holds his hand as they walk out of the airport to catch their Uber. By the time they get there, he’s actually kind of glad to see she looks spunky and defiant again.

“Don’t ever do this kind of thing again,” he says. “Okay?” His voice comes out all croaky. “Please?”

She squeezes his hand. “I hope not, Patrick.”

Which, for some reason, makes him smile so big. He squeezes her hand.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

MARNIE

I have had nineteen separate talks with myself since I talked to Patrick on the phone. All designed to harden myself up. Which is what you have to do when you’ve gotten yourself all entangled with a man who can’t love.

He’s been terrible, really. And I can’t afford to be hurt like this all the time. A dead woman has his heart, and no matter what he says, he’s not really interested in coming back to life, not on any kind of permanent basis. He doesn’t want children, or parties, or public displays of affection, or random conversations with people on the subway. He has to be dragged into any social interaction—and so what if he then likes them okay? So what if he’s now proven he can cope with parenthood on his own for weeks at a time? So the hell what? It proves nothing except that when he is cornered, when he is forced to endure something, he can do it. But oh, how he fights it. He doesn’t want to do anything outside of his comfort zone, anything the rest of the population thinks of as regular, ordinary life. And somehow that makes it worse, that he can do it, but won’t unless he’s made to.