“Okay, but try to be quick,” Barbara said tentatively. She had no choice but to warn him. “My mom’s coming back in a few minutes. For dinner. It’s Tuesday, remember?”

Steve paused on the stairs. His head dropped as he rested a hand on the banister. “Okay,” he said, looking up at Barbara and forcing a smile, obviously steeling himself. “Okay.”

As he drifted up the steps, part of her wished he’d demanded that she cancel dinner with her parents. Because, lately, his doing what she wanted seemed in inverse proportion to his affection for her.

After Steve was gone, Barbara went out to the sitting room. Cole wasn’t in front of the TV, a sure sign she’d left him out there far too long. Instead, he was sitting at his small table, tucked in the corner. His back was to Barbara. From across the room, she couldn’t see what he was doing, but the closer she got, the more it looked like he wasn’t doing much of anything. Except sitting there, staring once again, at nothing.

“Cole, honey,” Barbara called, slowing halfway across the room. She was afraid of startling him. She raised her voice, hoping he’d snap out of it before she got too close. “Bob’s not so interesting today?”

Cole didn’t answer. And he didn’t move—not an inch, not a twitch. Barbara couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.

“We have Nana’s lasagna for dinner, Cole.” Barbara made her voice louder but cheery as she made her way over to him, her hands clasped so tightly they had started to throb. “With no green things in it, just the way you like.”

She saw the markers then, the short, chubby ones. All fifty were scattered across the table and on the floor, most of their caps off, as though someone had tossed them into the air and let them rain down. Why would he do that? Cole was a neat, particular kid. He worried about things like markers drying out. Barbara was a couple feet behind him now. She reached out a hand as a hole opened up in her stomach.

“Bob the Builder, can we fix it?” Bob and his friends sang from behind her.

“Cole,” Barbara said more loudly. Her fingers stroked the air. “Cole, please. Look at me.”

She was right behind him now. She was right there. But he hadn’t moved. And she was so afraid to touch him. Afraid of what he might do—that was it. She felt afraid of her son. And why? It made no sense, but it was true. And she hated herself for it.

“Can we build it? Yes, we can!”

Cole was at least breathing, panting. “Honey?” Her voice was high and choppy. “Are you okay? Please, Cole, say something.”

There was only his breath, puff, puff, puff.

And then Barbara was close enough to see it. There, on the table. The drawing Cole had been working on. It was rough and childish, all jagged lines and out of proportion, like all of his drawings. But there was no pretending it was anything other than what it was.

A picture of a boy with his arm cut off.

Molly Sanderson, Session 10, May 1, 2013

(Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with

Patient Knowledge and Consent)

Q:    Do you think you’re ready to talk about what happened that night?

M.S.: You mean the night I lost the baby? We’ve talked about that a couple times. We can talk about it again if you want.

Q:    I mean after that. The night that brought you to see me the first time.

M.S.: You’re making it sound more serious than it was.

Q:    Justin had to call an ambulance.

M.S.: He did call an ambulance. He didn’t have to call an ambulance.

Q:    What happened that night, Molly?

M.S.: Justin panicked. I’m not blaming him, but that’s what happened. It was five stitches. I didn’t need an ambulance.

Q:    I think it’s important that we talk about it. You’ve made good progress here. But I don’t want to overlook the fact that we’ve been treading lightly around some pretty significant issues.

M.S.: I dropped a glass. It broke. Then I slipped when I was cleaning it up.

Q:    You slipped on your arm?

M.S.: Yes. That’s what happened.

Q:    And Ella?

M.S.: I didn’t realize I was bleeding until Justin came home. I never would have picked her up. If I’d been trying to kill myself, do you really think I would have done it when I was home alone with her?

Q:    You wouldn’t have?

M.S.: No. I would have waited until I was by myself. And then I would have been sure to finish the job.

Molly

From the sitting room, I heard the front door open. Justin. I listened to the familiar sounds of him dropping his bag, hanging up his jacket. I looked past my laptop to Ella, sound asleep on the couch next to me. Justin wouldn’t approve of my having let her fall asleep here instead of taking her up to bed. Admittedly, I was our weak link in the sleep department. But I couldn’t bring myself to say good night. I’d needed Ella’s warm little body pressed up against me. I thought about picking her up and hustling for the steps to hide the evidence, but before I could move, I got a text from Erik. Any word on that former student in the hospital?

Police holding her for questioning, I replied. I’ll need official confirmation before I report.

The more I thought about it, the less comfortable I was covering Rose’s part in the story. And that was unlikely to change after I had confirmation she was a suspect. She was probably like so many of those women I had worked on behalf of for years—scared, alone, traumatized. Not thinking clearly. That was something I certainly knew all about. How could I possibly add fuel to the police fire? I wished Stella had never called me, that I’d never met Rose. Especially after what Ella had told me. Had Stella invented the story about Rose’s sexual assault to protect Aidan? It was hard to believe that even Stella could be that good an actress or that calculated.

Hold off mentioning her until we see where it goes, Erik wrote back. We don’t want to jump the gun with something like this.

Okay, I wrote back, glad to be off the hook, but surprised by the sudden caution, at odds with Erik’s usual take-no-prisoners approach. Any idea when you’ll be back?

Soon, I hope. Helping with uncle’s funeral arrangements.

Your uncle?

Yes, elderly. Long illness.

Sorry to hear. My sympathies to your family.

Thx. Be in touch soon.

Nancy had said Erik’s cousin’s house had burned down. Now it was a dead elderly uncle. It was possible Nancy had gotten it wrong. Possible but unlikely. From the beginning, Erik’s abrupt disappearance had been suspicious. Now I felt sure that whatever Erik was doing had nothing to do with a dead uncle or a house fire.

I held a finger to my lips when Justin appeared in the doorway to our small sitting room, then I gestured guiltily toward Ella. He smiled—no hint of the irritation I’d expected—looking especially handsome in the suit he had on. The faculty cocktail party, I’d forgotten all about it. He must have come home to change after I’d seen him at the Black Cat. It was only then that I looked at the clock: almost eleven p.m. I’d gotten so wrapped up in fruitlessly searching for a connection between Rose and Aidan that I’d lost track of time.

There were no photos of Aidan on Rose’s Instagram account (dormant for days) and no mention of Rose on Aidan’s sparse Facebook page, wide open for the world to see with its absence of privacy settings. I’d come across Rose’s raw-food blog, which included mentions of her roommate, Laurie, and a handful of photos of her friends. But no mention of any boyfriend.