We leave that alone for now. I turn my head to look out the kitchen window and catch sight of the rosary that Sister Margaret gave me, sitting on the kitchen counter nearby.

“I’ll call Sister Margaret later,” I say.

“Ah, the venerable nun.”

“She’s the most amazing person I think I’ve ever met,” I say.

I walk over to the rosary, snatch it from the counter and clutch it to my breast.

“Some people find comfort in religion in times of crisis,” he says.

I realize that the only thing I really know about Freddie is that he lost a daughter to the streets.

“Do you believe in God?” I ask.

He pauses.

“I want to,” he replies. “Do you?”

“I do,” I say. “But I want more. I want to know God.”

“Whoa. You thinking of joining the convent?” he says with a grin in his voice.

“Not exactly,” I say, smiling involuntarily.

“Anyway,” he begins, his voice again deadly serious.

“Who are you talking to?” Robs voice suddenly barks from the hallway.

I shift ramrod straight in my chair; a feeling of guilt scuttles through me as the rest of Freddie’s sentence dissolves in the air.

I quietly flick the phone closed.

I stand up and refill my coffee.

“No one,” I lie, responding to Rob. What we absolutely do not need to be doing now is fighting.

I pull a mug from the cupboard. “Coffee?” I ask, pouring a cup for him. He doesn’t respond.

I walk the cup of coffee over to him and can see by the look on his face that he is in a foul mood.

“We have to talk,” I begin.

“I heard,” he says, his voice flat. “I don’t know if you noticed or not, but the house is surrounded by vultures.” The sarcasm in his voice is unmistakable.

“It might help if you were ever here,” I say.

“I left you a message. You knew where I was. I was helping a guy. A wet drunk who rolled his car and is now facing charges because his wife was thrown from the vehicle and is still in the hospital. She’s paralyzed from the neck down. And all this guy wants to do is drink himself to death.”

My back is to him. I say nothing, biting my lip, trying not to lash out at him.

“He needed my help,” Rob says emphatically.

I whip around. “ I need your help!” I shout. “Our daughter might be lying in some morgue and I’m here! All by myself! I need your help! Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“My help?!” he spits out. He points a finger accusingly at the living room window. “Looks like you don’t need my help. You’ve got every bloodsucking reporter bearing down on us, just waiting for the cops to announce that it is Robyn they found. And I hope you’re happy, because those friggin’ posters did it, Margot.”

“We don’t know she’s,” I stop; I can’t say the word. “We don’t know anything at this point.”

“Don’t we?”

“Is this what you want to do?” I say, my eyes filling with tears. “Argue while the medical examiner is comparing Robyn’s dental records with that dead little girl? Is it?” I scream. “Don’t you get that our daughter needs us? She out there, somewhere, lost!”

Rob shakes his head. “She was lost a long time ago. You just chose to ignore that fact. Just like you ignore anything that doesn’t suit you.”

My body shakes with rage.

“You bastard! Don’t you make me out to be the bad guy here. I’ve been the one who has kept this family together. I was the one who found you this job in California when you got laid off in Aztec. I was the one who made the phone calls, arranged for the interview. I got the Bay Area newspapers and found this house to rent, along with everything else!”

Rob stands, silent. His silence frightens me. Over the years I have become accustomed to his bellowing reactions in our very familiar fights. But today, now, he just stands there, his façade is calm. I wipe the tears roughly from my cheeks and shake my head.

“I’m sorry, Rob. It’s just the stress of all of this has both of us worn out. I don’t blame you. Honestly.”

Still he says nothing.

“I know we both felt that the move to California would be for the best. We’ve always been a team. Ever since we got married.” I give him an imploring look. But I cannot read his face.

I sniffle, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

“Let’s you and me start over,” I say. “Back to the time when we were in love.”

The tears are flowing freely again now. I blink them away and gaze at Rob. And it is then that I see it. Or, I should say rather, it is then that I don’t see it. There is no love in my husband’s eyes.

“Rob?” I say. “We were in love,” I say again. “You and me? And we got married?” I pause. “We’ve been through so much. But no matter what, we’ve still got us…” my voice trails off because deep in the pit of my gut, I know the truth. And maybe I’ve always known it, but as Rob said, all these years I’ve chosen to ignore it.

Rob shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks down at the floor. Then he meets my eyes.

“I’m gonna say this the kindest way I know how. We had us some good times back in high school. We really did.” He swallows. “But I married you because you were pregnant. Because I wanted to do the right thing. And that’s the God’s honest truth.

I’ve done the best I can over the years. I know I’ve screwed up. I know that. I’ve taken the easy way out so many times. I’ve turned myself into a drunk, plain and simple. But I’m sober now. And I intend to stay that way. No matter what. And being sober means being honest.”

My heart wrenches. I close my eyes and stifle a sob, but it comes out anyway. My hand jumps to my mouth because I know now what Rob has known for years: our marriage is over; if it ever really existed in the first place.

“I’m gonna get cleaned up and go to a meeting,” he says. “Here’s the phone number where the meeting’s at. Call me as soon as you hear something.” He opens his wallet, retrieving a slip of paper from an inner pocket and drops it on the kitchen table. Then he turns on his heels and heads for the bathroom.

I hear the faucet to the shower shriek on and I bury my face in my hands. But I’m not allowed the luxury of a good cry. Someone is rapping sharply on the front door.

My heart thumps in my chest as I shuffle through the living room. It could be a reporter or it could be the police. I take a deep breath and glance through the peephole. It is neither. I breathe out a sigh of exhausted relief.

Opening the door, I fall into Sister Margaret’s arms and collapse in grief.

“Look up for a sec,” the young man named Philip says to me. He speaks with a lisp and his fingernails are painted with clear gloss. “Hey Joanie, I think we’re gonna get too much kickback on her neck under the lights… get me some Derma Blend number three.”

A young woman with pencil thin legs wearing skinny jeans and a revealing deep-V-cut top nods and sprints away only to return seconds later with the makeup Philip requested.

“Hi, I’m Donnie,” another young man approaches me with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. His jeans are faded and have holes at the knees. Although he is behind me, we are looking at each other through the mirror that I’m sitting in front of, as Philip applies the finishing touches to my face with an air brush contraption that looks more like something that belongs in a hospital operating room.

“I’m Margot,” I say.

“So you’re going to be going on with Mr. McGowan in about three minutes, okay?” Donnie says.

“Okay,” I reply, inhaling deeply.

“Relax,” Donnie says. “Mr. McGowan is super nice. Are you nervous?” he asks.

I swallow down a globe of terror. “A little,” I say.

“Don’t be nervous. Mr. McGowan is super nice.”

Behind us an older man with a graying beard sticks his head through the doorway and glances our way. “We’re going to commercial in ninety seconds,” he says.