Listening to his happy smacks and grunts, I thought, He doesn’t know enough to be afraid. As long as she feeds him and cuddles him and keeps him dry and warm, this could be no different for him than that night exactly six weeks after his birth, when he stayed with his sisters at my mom’s place, so Trey and I could have a romantic overnight at the St. Regis.

I was grateful then, so grateful that it wasn’t Peyton or Anna-Claire. Peyton had been born so anxious. I had a flash of her in a dark room, curled into a fetal ball, picking her fingernails bloody. Anna-Claire chose fight over flight every time. I saw her hurling her body against a locked door, screaming until someone came to drug her or hurt her or gag her. My body shuddered with a thousand feelings. Hate and rage and helplessness, but also this strange gratitude that Robert was so young. I could get him back undamaged, just himself.

I put the Bluetooth in my ear. I transferred my wallet, some cash, and the cheap cell phone into a black beaded bag. It was a little large for evening, but I had a lot to carry.

I reached for my own iPhone, and it felt like reaching for Trey. As my fingers closed around it, I was swamped again with that desperate need to call him. I wanted his arms around me so damn bad. I’d call Trey first, then the police, my father-in-law with his political connections and his money. Or I’d call Marshall, who was so gruff with me these days, but surely all our history could trump that. He had guns and understood crimes. Marshall could find her.

A picture flashed in my head. Me, peering through a crack in her drapes. I would shoot her right between her eyes with one of Marshall’s pistols, then run in to pluck my baby out of her dead arms.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” I said out loud, apologizing as if she could feel the ripples of my imaginary rebellion. I couldn’t stop seeing my son’s small head, round and covered in a floss of pale hair, resting in her gnarled hands. His neck was such a slender stem, still wobbly when he held his head up. One twist. It would be so fast. So final. My own head shook back and forth in a silent, involuntary no.

I shoved the bracelet up higher on my arm, feeling the good bite of it into my flesh. I wasn’t going to call anyone. I was going to follow the rules.

I grabbed the evening bag and headed toward the kitchen, careful not to turn my head as I passed the nursery. The animal inside me howled, but outside I was Betsy, bold and cool and street-smart, and the room through that open door was still an office. No giraffe wallpaper. No black hole like some essential organ missing from my middle.

Back in the kitchen, I picked up the capsule that had rolled away, dropping it back into the bottle.

I needed to leave, but I didn’t trust myself to drive. I got my own phone out and opened the Lyft app. I could have a Lux Black here in ten minutes. Good enough. I hit the button to confirm.

Then I went to Google and typed in “Hypnodorm.” I scanned the entry, reading about dosage and side effects. Roofies lowered inhibitions, made people suggestible, and stole their memory. I was going to feed them to the lawyer who worked with my husband on multimillion-dollar cases. Spence held the secrets of a host of rich and powerful people. People who made even Trey’s father look like small potatoes.

The bottle said the capsules were one milligram each. Google told me a standard dose was one to two milligrams and warned that roofies could be dangerous if they were taken with alcohol. This was Spence, so they absolutely would be taken with plenty of alcohol.

I put my phone away and tipped two capsules into my hand. He was a large man, though, and maybe the pills were old. He might set his drink down unfinished. I tipped out a third, stuffed the bottle back into my purse, and went to Trey’s office.

It was a masculine space with an exposed brick wall, leather chairs, and art deco prints of famous New York buildings. A French bar cart from the 1930s displayed Trey’s mostly full bottle of Pappy Van Winkle between lesser bottles of Lagavulin and WhistlePig rye. The firm would be serving top-shelf tonight, but not Pappy. Pappy was so far over top-shelf that the atmosphere around it was thin. I’d paid almost two thousand dollars for this bottle, a present for Trey’s fiftieth birthday.

In the smoked mirror, I watched as a tall, slim figure, dressed to cause trouble, poured a shot of Pappy into a rocks glass. She pulled three capsules apart, one by one, and tipped fine, white powder into the bourbon.

“You dose Shaw by ten, hear? The drugs work fast, so excuse yourself, quick as you can. Then you text me and say it’s done.”

“Yes. I’ll text you.” I couldn’t hear Robert eating anymore. He must be finished. “Remember, you have to burp him twice.”

“I will. I’ll be sweet with your boy, as long as you are doing what I need. Now, you got any questions on it?”

I swallowed. If I succeeded, the girls might never know that he’d been missing. I wanted this. Innocence was permission to be bold. I’d been raised by a mom who saw monsters under every bed. If it weren’t for Betsy, fearless and strong enough to drag me toward adventure, I might have grown up afraid of my own shadow. Had Mom been right about the world all along?

Maybe, but I didn’t want the girls to know. If I got Robert back tomorrow, unchanged, unharmed, the girls blissfully ignorant, all their lives could continue, normal.

I’d tell Trey, because I wasn’t sure who or what I would be in the wake of this. I had no chance of coming out of this unbroken. I was split in two already. But I hardly cared. Not if all three of my kids could be safe and the same.

“What do I do after I text you?”

“You leave. Don’t stay to watch. Don’t try to find my girl. I’ve left her out of the worst parts. She had no part in taking your baby, understand? That was all me. In the morning I’ll call and tell you where to pick him up.”

“Okay,” I said.

And that was it. She disconnected.

I stirred the bourbon with the silver bar spoon. The drug dissolved easily, disappearing into the amber liquid. I nodded to myself. I could watch for when Spence’s glass got low, then offer to top him off with a shot from Trey’s best bottle. I couldn’t imagine him saying no to Pappy. If he dared, I’d knock him down and pill him like a cat with the other three.

I was tempted to have a sip to make sure the taste didn’t give anything away, but with all three dissolved in there, it must be strong; I needed a clear head. Besides, Google said that roofies were tasteless. It was why they were so dangerous. Girls kept sipping their Cokes or beer with no idea of what else they were getting.