“Hi, Sam.” Abby smiled at her. “Can you turn off the music for a sec?”

Samantha paused the playback. Keebles tilted her head and almost seemed to roll her eyes. Abby imagined her thinking, Ugh, human parents are the worst.

“How was your day?” Abby asked.

“Fine.”

“What are you practicing?”

“A song for the band.”

Some days, Samantha could go into a two-hour-long monologue about her music. Other days all Abby got were a few monosyllabic grunts. It seemed today was a grunt day. Keebles shifted on the bed and yawned.

“Was Grandma here?”

“Yeah, she left an hour ago. She said she’ll call you. Something about an urgent question about Ben’s birthday present.”

Ben, right. “Ben said you told him you’d squash Jeepers.”

“Mom, he put that thing on the table while I was eating.”

“I told him not to put it on the table, but you can’t say things like that. Imagine him saying that he’ll kill Keebles. How would that make you feel?”

Samantha and Keebles exchanged looks. Now they both seemed to roll their eyes.

“I’m sorry, but how do you expect me to act if he puts that creature near my plate?” Samantha asked calmly.

“Tell him to take it away.”

“Take it away?”

“Yeah, tell him you’re uncomfortable with it and that he should take it back to his room.”

“Take it back to his room.”

“Listen, tell you what, I’ll talk to him again, make it clear in no uncertain terms to keep it away from the kitchen table.”

“It seems like you think that would help.”

It took Abby a few seconds to catch on. Samantha’s voice was slow and measured; she’d mirrored Abby’s words, labeling the situation and asking open-ended questions. She was handling her mother like Abby would handle an out-of-control subject.

It wasn’t the first time. Samantha had been seven when Abby became a hostage negotiator. She’d grown up with it in the house, and as kids did with useful information, she’d soaked it up like a sponge.

And of course, it had already worked like a charm. Abby had promised to talk to Ben again. She’d calmed down, trying to find a solution to the problem instead of demanding things from her daughter.

She was both infuriated and proud. Grinning at Samantha, she said, “I’ll start making dinner in a bit.”

Samantha nodded. “Today is a no-meat day for me.” She turned the music back on.

Abby shut the door behind her, shaking her head. They should insist all prospective negotiators have kids. Nothing prepared you better for crisis management.

CHAPTER 8

Eden Fletcher called out to her kids as soon as she walked through the door but got no response. She took off her coat, hung it on the coatrack, and made her way to the kitchen. She wanted a cup of tea. She’d spent the last half hour of her shift rescheduling an appointment for one of Dr. Gregory’s oldest clients. The woman was hard of hearing, and Eden had to half shout through the phone while constantly giving the irate people in the waiting room apologetic looks. By the time she’d ended the call, her throat was raw and her nerves shot to hell.

She made her tea with a spoonful of honey, which she normally didn’t like, but this time it hit the spot. As she took the second sip, she noticed with some surprise that there was no plate in the sink. Nathan usually made himself a sandwich when he got home, and he always placed the plate in the sink afterward. It was possible he’d washed the plate and dried it, then put it back in the cupboard, but it was also possible that she was a long-lost princess.

As she took her tea back to the living room, a second discrepancy caught her eye—Nathan’s schoolbag wasn’t discarded by the door.

She went to his room and scrutinized it. It was a mess, as usual, but the schoolbag wasn’t there either. And neither was Nathan.

The door to Gabrielle’s room was shut. Eden knocked on it tentatively. “Gabi?”

“What?” Gabi asked from beyond the door.

Eden opened the door. Gabi was sprawled on her bed, eyes glued to her phone, one finger on the screen.

“Where’s Nathan?” Eden asked.

“I don’t know. Probably in his room.” Gabi’s words were sticky, the syllables mushing into each other. She really communicated better typing than talking.

“He’s not. Did you see him when he got home from school?”

“No.” Gabi was still fully intent on her phone. “He probably went to a friend’s house. Maybe that kid down the block, uh . . . Mikey?”

“I’ll check,” Eden said with unease. Nathan had never gone to a friend’s home straight from school. But he was growing up, and it wasn’t like she didn’t allow it. It was possible.

She checked her own bedroom to make sure Nathan wasn’t there for some reason and then went back downstairs. Dialing Mikey’s mother’s phone number, she paced the living room impatiently. The woman answered after a few rings. A steady noise hummed in the background, like a vacuum cleaner.

“Hello, Rita?” Eden said. “It’s Eden, Nathan’s mom.”

“Oh hi,” Rita said, her voice laced with feigned politeness. “How are you?”