I’d gone back inside after Steve left, but only long enough to get Ella dressed and to change out of the yoga pants I’d slept in. I’d deliberately avoided looking at the box. After Ella was safely at school, I’d planned to go home and look inside. Except now I was doing my damnedest to avoid the house. I was so stressed about the whole thing, I was even tempted to tell Stella. But that box was exactly the strange turn of events she lived for. She’d have us rushing back to my house to go through every last page.

“Cockroaches would remind you of the city, too, you know,” Stella went on. “But that doesn’t mean we need to start importing them. Oh, wait, I didn’t tell you, did I?” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Zachary and I are having lunch after my lesson today.”

“Really?” I was relieved to be talking about something silly like Stella’s endless—but largely halfhearted—pursuit of her thirty-one-year-old tennis coach. It gave me an excuse not to ask the questions I had about Rose and her baby and Aidan. I wasn’t sure I was ready for the answers.

I startled when my phone buzzed on the table.

“Wow, jumpy much?” Stella asked, intrigued. “Who is it?”

Richard Englander. I was surprised it had taken Richard all the way until nine thirty to call me again. It was his third call. There had also been a couple of texts. He was back in the office and wanted in on the biggest story that had hit Ridgedale in years. In fairness, it would have been his if he hadn’t been out. His first message, the night before, had been nice—just checking in to see if I needed any help. But each one had gotten more insistent. I let his call go straight to voicemail, fairly certain I’d never listen to the message. And absolutely sure I wasn’t giving him the story back. Not unless and until Erik made me.

“So you were saying: lunch with Zachary?” I turned back to Stella. “Really?”

“Wait a second, don’t try to change the subject.” She pointed a finger at me. “What’s wrong? Who was that?”

“It was just that guy, the other reporter from the Reader. The young one.”

“The asshole?”

“Yes, him. He’s the news reporter. The baby would have been his story if he hadn’t been out sick,” I said. “He wants me to hand it over.”

“Screw him,” Stella said. “You’re doing a great job. I read that piece of yours this morning about—what’s it called—neonaticide. It was really . . .” She searched for a word. “Impassioned.”

“Yeah, well, it would definitely make Justin happy if I let Richard take over.”

“Oh yeah?” She paused, pressing her lips together. I could always see Stella bracing to pounce whenever I complained about Justin, which was why I never did. She loved to bitch about husbands—ex, current, prospective, it didn’t matter.

“He’s worried I’m going to have some kind of breakdown because it’s about a baby.”

Stella stared at me for a long time, her expression unreadable. “Are you?” Her tone was matter-of-fact. As though, yes, a calamitous mental breakdown was always a possibility, just an utterly unremarkable one.

And that was why I loved her.

“No,” I said. Not only did I mean it, but it felt true. “I’m really not. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I actually feel better than I have in years.”

“Then, as your friend, I say you need to do it,” Stella said with unusual seriousness. There was an unfamiliar look on her face, too—sincerity. “Regardless of what makes sense. And notwithstanding what Justin wants.”

“Right, screw the damn husband,” I said with a gentle smile. I didn’t think that was what Stella meant, but she could be flip about marriage.

She looked wounded. “I’m just saying sometimes there are things you need to do, no matter what anyone says about it.”

“So what ended up happening with Rose?” I asked, knowing it was time to change the subject. And I needed to clear the air. My suspicions were surely ridiculous; they felt ridiculous. But a little proof would be nice. “You know, the police called me looking for her. And you.”

“Yes, apparently I needed permission to take my aunt to the Philadelphia Flower Show.” Stella didn’t seem the least bit surprised or concerned. “Anyway, Rose took off. I told the police that. And can you blame her? They will eventually figure out that it wasn’t her baby, but in the meantime, why should she stick around while they harass her? Anyway, I don’t think that’s why she left. I think it was the baby’s father. She told me she wasn’t on her way to work when she got into that accident. She was leaving town. She wouldn’t tell me details, but I think she was scared.”

“How can you be sure she’s okay? Have you spoken to her?”

“Are you saying you think I lied to the police when I said I didn’t know where she went?” Stella asked with exaggerated offense. “Working on this story has made you awfully suspicious, Ms. Sanderson.”

“I’m just saying, what if the baby’s father came and took her from the hospital?”

“That’s what you’re worried about, Rose’s safety?” Stella asked. She could tell I wasn’t convinced Rose was in the clear. Stella was hard to manipulate. “That baby is not Rose’s baby. Didn’t they say it was a newborn? Rose’s baby was at least three weeks old. And she wasn’t a small baby.”

“Approximately newborn,” I clarified. “I don’t think they know for sure.”

“Well, well, you’ve certainly drunk the Kool-Aid,” Stella said. “You sound just like them, Molly. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

Before I could defend myself—and it would have been a lame defense—Stella was distracted by a text.

“Great,” she said. Then she spoke aloud at an annoyed clip, the contents of the response she was typing. “Why aren’t you in school, Aidan?” She shook her head and looked up at me. “You’d think he’d know enough not to text me when he’s supposed to be in class. Aidan’s crappy behavior might bother me less if it didn’t always make him look so damn stupid.”

“Sounds like things are the same with him, then.”

Aidan. The flower girl. I could still hear Ella’s little voice: What’s a slut, Mommy? There was surely an explanation. I just needed to hear it. And I needed to figure out a way to get Stella to tell me without having to ask her outright. Because I liked Stella, and I wasn’t sure our relationship could survive that kind of direct accusation.

“Things with Aidan never change.” She shrugged, frowned. “I just have to accept that I have no control over what he does. Maybe Aidan will end up fine, and maybe he won’t. That’s terrifying, but it’s also reality. I can’t drive myself crazy waiting to see how he’ll turn out.”

“Maybe he needs a girlfriend,” I said. “You know, somebody to keep him in line.”

“Bite your tongue,” Stella said. “The one thing—probably the only thing—we have going for us is that Aidan doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

When I got home, I stood in the open door, staring down at the box, afraid to open it. Finally I crouched down and jerked off the lid as if ripping off a Band-Aid. My pulse was racing when I looked in, but Steve had been right, just some ordinary files.

I pulled one out at random. It was for a girl named Trisha Campbell from 2006. Inside were photocopies of a hodgepodge of Ridgedale University records—transcripts, dorm information, food-plan data. Trisha had been a good student, a double major in English and history who’d studied in Spain her junior year. I had Trisha’s file open in front of me as I pulled out another, this one from 2007. A girl named Rebecca Raynor. Inside was a slightly different mix of records. Rebecca had been a biology major with less impressive grades but several awards for music achievement. I put Rebecca’s file next to Trisha’s. Then I saw a name I recognized: Rose Gowan, 2014.

When I looked back at Trisha’s file, sure enough, there it was: VW, in the middle of her senior year. Rebecca had voluntarily withdrawn as well. As it turned out, every one of the students in that box—six, all female—had withdrawn voluntarily from Ridgedale University. One in 2006 and two in 2007, the remaining three from 2012 to 2014. The only obvious connection I could find was between the three girls who’d withdrawn in 2006 and 2007: They’d all taken the same American studies class, taught by a Professor Christine Carroll. Otherwise, the remaining girls’ schedules and backgrounds were completely different.