“Sandy?”
When she looked up, there was a woman standing next to the booth in Pat’s Pancakes. Pretty, with pale skin and long curly reddish hair. Molly looked nice and normal. Like a regular mom, but not in a bad way. It had been Aidan’s idea to text her the night before. She was a reporter, his mom’s friend. Somebody who might be able to help.
“Yeah.” Sandy nodded, feeling a lot more nervous than she’d counted on.
“I’m Molly Sanderson.” The woman reached out a hand as she sat down in the booth across from Sandy. “I don’t know if you remember, but I actually called you a few months ago when I was doing a story on the Outreach Tutoring program. Rhea gave me your number.”
“Oh, right,” Sandy said, even though she didn’t remember. At least that explained how the hell Molly had tracked her down so fast.
“Jenna is your mom, I’m guessing?”
Sandy nodded, then shrugged. “But she’s not your usual kind of mom.”
“I’m not sure there is such a thing,” Molly said, which was nice. She didn’t have to say that. “So you said she’s missing?”
“She left Blondie’s after work a couple days ago and never came home,” Sandy said. “She’s kind of a screwup. Totally a screwup. But not like this. She would call me.”
“I believe you,” Molly said. And it actually seemed like she did. “It sounds like you went to the police already.”
“I did. The chief of police, Steve. He was nice and everything, and he said he would help. But then I found this in his house.” She put the necklace on the table and slid it across. “It’s my mom’s. She never takes it off.”
Molly reached forward to take it. She looked concerned. “Why were you in his house?”
“I didn’t break in or anything.” I was just looking through his shit to steal drugs. “I know his daughter.”
“Would your mom have any reason to know Steve?”
“I don’t think so, unless he arrested her. That could be, except she never mentioned it. And she would have. She tells me everything. But he definitely had this weird look on his face when I said her name.”
“Did you ask his daughter?”
“Ask her what?”
“If her dad knows your mom.”
“I can’t really ask her anything right now.” Sandy shook her head, tried not to notice how raw her throat felt. “She’s kind of checked out.”
She’d been lying when she’d texted Molly that she would tell her what happened to the baby. Sandy was going to get what she needed from this reporter, and then the woman could go to hell—no offense. What had happened to that baby was a secret Sandy would take to the grave. She hadn’t even explained it to Aidan, who’d been nice enough not to ask how the hell she could have known what had happened to the baby’s head.
“You could go to other police, you know,” Molly said, like she was really trying to help. “The state police, maybe.”
“I can’t.” Sandy shook her head. She had to hope this woman would drop it. “I mean, I really can’t. Trust me.”
“Okay,” Molly said, backing off the way Sandy had wanted her to. “Let me just think for a minute.” She stared at the table. When she looked up, she crossed her arms, her face tougher. “I’ll do it. I’ll ask him why he had the necklace. And if he doesn’t have a good answer or he hasn’t done enough to find your mother, I’ll go to the state police myself. One way or another, we’ll find out what happened to her, Sandy. I promise.”
Then Molly leaned forward and put her hand over Sandy’s. And there were the tears in Sandy’s eyes again—seriously? Was this all it took? For some nice, normal-looking woman to be a little bit kind to her, and she totally fell apart?
“Okay,” Sandy said, and that was all she could manage. She nodded and turned toward the window.
“But, Sandy, whatever happened to the baby—and I’m not saying it was you—whoever, whatever was involved. These things don’t just go away, no matter how much you hope they will. And the harder you try to force them down, the harder they push their way back to the surface. I’m saying that from personal experience.” Molly looked sad. “It can help if you tell someone what happened. I can be that person for you, Sandy. And I’m a lawyer—or I used to be a lawyer. I can be your lawyer for the purposes of this. That way no one can make me tell them what you told me. All you have to say is that you want me to be your lawyer.”
“I want you to be my lawyer,” Sandy said.
But that wasn’t what she was thinking. She was thinking: I want you to be my mother.
Sandy hadn’t wanted to go to Hannah’s house for their tutoring session. She’d been hoping she’d never have to see where Hannah lived, never have to feel all that cozy love pouring out from the walls. But Hannah had said she was stuck home, watching her brother. She offered to reschedule, but Sandy wasn’t ready for her math quiz, and if she wasn’t prepared, if it didn’t seem like she’d tried, Rhea would be crushed.
The house was basically the nightmare Sandy had dreaded. Nothing fancy, like Aidan’s, but cheerful as all fuck. To-do lists and chore charts and newspaper articles labeled with Post-its and highlighting. There was one of those personalized calendars, with pictures of Hannah and Cole and a big red circle around March 31: “Hannah’s Recital!”
“My parents won’t be home for at least an hour and a half, and Cole’s watching TV. If it’s okay with you, could we study here at the table? In case he needs anything?” Hannah moved a stack of place mats and a little vase of flowers, then dropped her books in the center of the table. “Do you want something to drink or anything?”