I want to be bitter, but what would be the point? Chelsea ’s job is to grow up, move forward. My job is to let her go. I just didn’t think it would be happening at the age of six.

Michael appears in the dining room. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there. Chelsea and I take the hint. I place money on the table for the check, then gather my things. By the time I slide out of the booth, Michael is already at the front doors, Chelsea lagging somewhere in between, trying to split the difference between her father ahead, her mother behind.

I catch up with her and we push out through the glass doors, where the storm has finally broken and cooling rain comes down in sheets. We hesitate under the awning, gathering ourselves for the sprint to the cars. Michael uses the moment to say, “I’m sure Chelsea mentioned the wedding to you.”

“Congratulations,” I say. Then ruin the moment by adding, “When would you like Evan to get fitted for a tux?”

The look he shoots me would’ve killed a lesser woman. I deliver it right back. I dare him to deny our firstborn child, who still asks when his father will be coming home.

“I didn’t leave you,” Michael states crisply, voice low, so Chelsea won’t hear. “You left me. You left me the second you decided his needs mattered more than anyone else’s.”

“He’s a child-”

“Who needs professional full-time care.”

“An institution, you mean.”

“There are other ways to help him. You refused to consider any of them. You decided you knew best. You and only you could help him. After that, Chelsea and I didn’t matter anymore. You can’t blame us for getting on with our lives.”

But I do, I want to tell him, I do.

He motions to Chelsea that it’s time to go. Her head is down, her body language subdued. Even if she can’t hear the words, she knows we’re fighting and it’s hurt her.

I put my arms around my daughter. I feel the silk of her hair, the lightness of her slender body. I inhale the scent of coconut shampoo and Crayola markers. I hug her, hard, for this hug has to last me an entire week. Then I let her go.

She and her father bolt across the rain-swept parking lot, hands over their heads to protect themselves from the deluge. Minutes later, they’re both in Michael’s BMW and it’s pulling away, rear lights glowing red in the gloom.

I don’t know how it feels for a father to leave his son. I only know how it feels for a mother to leave her daughter, my heart driving away from me and leaving a gaping hole in the middle of my chest.

I step out in the storm, unhurried now. I let the rain soak my hair, batter my white blouse. I let the deluge pound against my face.

Friday night. Three more days, I think.

I drive home to Evan.

D.D. had never been to a locked-down pediatric psych ward, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to start. But of all members of the Harrington family, Ozzie remained the most intriguing. Patrick’s former employer had nothing but positive things to say. Denise’s boss was so choked up over her murder he could barely speak. They got bursts of “great woman,” “devoted mom,” “heart as big as the sky,” in between fresh bouts of muffled sobbing.

Phil phoned in with the credit report; it was about what they’d expected. The Harringtons were down to their last eight hundred in the bank. They had a substantial mortgage payment due, not to mention ten grand in credit cards. Up until this point, the family had never missed a payment. Chances were, that had been about to change.

In the plus column, the Harringtons received a check every month from the state for Ozzie; also, Denise had just gotten a modest raise at her receptionist job. Judging by the going rate in Dorchester, the family could hang on if they got the upper two floors rented. Phil and Professor Alex were going to walk through the space this evening to estimate just how close Patrick might have been to that goal.

And if the Harringtons did lose the house? Patrick’s first wife was dead; Denise’s first husband, out of the picture. Did Patrick or Denise have other family that could take them in? Was there a possibility of them receiving assistance from the church?

D.D. wanted answers to those questions. Better yet, she wanted to find out if Denise or Patrick had made the same inquiries. From their perspective, how deep was the chasm that loomed in front of them? Was it a matter of Oh well, we can always move in with brother Joe? Or was it Dammit, we’re facing three kids in a homeless shelter with no hope of getting out?

Eighteen hours after the initial call, D.D. had four dead, and one in critical condition. For suspects she got to choose between a middle-aged family man and his nine-year-old psychotic son. The father had more physical capability. The son had more mental inclination.

Which brought her and her new shadow, Professor Alex, to the Pediatric Evaluation Clinic of Boston, part of the Kirkland Medical Center.

First steps into the locked-down psych unit weren’t what D.D. expected. The ceiling yawned nine feet above. Natural light poured in massive windows to illuminate pale green carpeting and soft blue walls. Built-in benches featured fabrics dotted with small yellow ducks, while a cluster of wooden tables bore buckets of Legos. Place reminded her of a waiting room in an upscale pediatrician’s office. Except the kids checked in for a much longer stay.

D.D. was just turning toward Alex when a black girl with twin braids flapping underneath her red helmet whizzed by on Rollerblades. A second later, a smaller boy in sagging blue sweatpants followed in hot pursuit, not as well balanced, but churning forward for all he was worth.

D.D. jumped back. Alex, too.

“Becca, Arnie, not beyond the orange cone!” a man’s voice boomed. The girl and boy each turned-her gracefully, him awkwardly-then raced back the other direction, barely missing D.D. and Alex a second time.

“Sorry,” the man called out, sounding more amused than annoyed. A younger guy with buzz-cut brown hair, he stood next to an orange cone in the middle of the hall. He looked like a gym coach, wearing blue sweatpants and a white T-shirt that defined a well-developed set of pecs. In his hand, he carried a clipboard, while a lanyard bearing ID and a set of keys jangled around his neck.

His charges zipped straight toward the large window at the opposite end of the long hallway. He turned to follow. “Slow down, Arnie. Easy, buddy; you don’t have to win the race your first time out.”

D.D. decided it was safer to stand with her back against the wall. So did Alex. They’d made it through the locked front doors into the lobby, then through the next set of locked doors connecting the reception area to the unit. Now they were waiting for their designated nurse, Danielle Burton, to join them; she’d needed to fetch Ozzie Harrington’s file, and had left them standing next to a common area.

The left half of the space was set up with half a dozen oak tables-the dining/craft/games space. The right half contained several comfy-looking couches lined up in front of a screen-the TV/movie lounge.

As D.D. watched, one dark head popped up from behind the first sofa, followed quickly by two more. The kids’ gazes zoomed in on D.D. and Alex, then the three boys scrambled over the furniture.

“Hola. ¿Cómo está?” the smallest boy said, running up, then stopping in front of them, his bare toes touching D.D.’s pointed black shoes, his face all earnest interest. His two friends lined up behind him. D.D. pegged the leader’s age at seven or eight. He had his jeans rolled up all the way to his thighs. As he stood there, he started folding and unfolding his right pants leg.

“Bueno,” D.D. ventured. “¿Y tú?”

“Que bueno. Did you find Lucy? Dónde está?”