The cab honked. My mother kissed me on the cheek. My father shook my hand.

“Dad, I want—”

“Good luck,” he said.

I could not remember what I was going to say, so I left. It was the last time I saw them.

* * *

• • •

In the end, I didn’t lie to the kids. I said their grandparents died in a freak car accident and had been gone for many years.

I did not tell them everything, but it was close. That was because of Millicent. Together, we decided how much to say. To make it as official as possible, we called a family meeting. Rory and Jenna were so young. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but we did it anyway.

We sat in the living room. Jenna was already in her yellow pajamas with the balloons all over them. She loved balloons, and Rory loved to pop them. Jenna’s dark hair was cut to the chin, and she had bangs straight across her forehead. Her dark eyes peeked out from under them.

Rory was wearing a blue T-shirt and sweatpants. When he’d turned seven, he had declared himself too old for pajamas. Millicent and I decided we could live with that, and she stopped buying them.

It was hard to look at their tiny, trusting faces and tell them that sometimes people are better off not having kids.

“Not everyone should be a parent,” I said. “Just like not everyone is nice.”

Jenna was the first to speak. “I already know about strangers.”

“Not everyone in your family is nice. Or was nice.”

Scrunched-up faces. Confusion.

I spoke for ten minutes. That was all it took to tell my children their grandparents were not good parents.

The irony of what I had done hit me years later, after Holly and the others. Someday, Rory and Jenna might have a talk with their kids and say the same thing about Millicent and me.

Thirty-five

I had assumed the DNA testing on the lock of Naomi’s hair would take longer than a week. Perhaps because it was always so fast on TV, I figured that their timing must be fake. That real DNA testing must take months. And apparently it does, but not for the preliminary tests. And not when the police are trying to find a woman who may still be alive.

The tests indicate there is more than a 99 percent chance the hair belongs to Naomi.

Kekona is the one who tells me all of this. Our regular tennis lesson becomes a class in forensics, because her new hobby is true-crime TV and documentaries. Missing and/or dead women are common on these shows.

“Always young, beautiful, and basically innocent,” she says, ticking off the qualities one by one. She has a cup of coffee with her, and I do not think it is her first. “Although occasionally they have a case about a prostitute, as a cautionary tale.”

“Then what?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, after this young, beautiful and basically innocent woman goes missing, what happens?”

Kekona holds up both her hands, as if she is trying to quiet a loud audience. “Option one—the boyfriend, because he’s jealous and possessive. Or the ex-boyfriend, because he’s jealous and possessive.”

“Was that all one option?”

“Yes. Pay attention. Option two is the stranger, or most likely a stranger. This is the psycho/stalker/sociopath/mentally ill/serial killer option. At least one of them, maybe more.”

Kekona is not telling me anything new. I watch TV, too. But not the past day or so, because the news is still banned in our house. I missed Josh’s report about the DNA results, and I make a mental note to look it up online.

“Possible outcomes?” Kekona says this as if I’d asked about them. I had not. “Death. Rape and death. Torture and rape and death.”

Not much to say to that.

“Occasionally, one lives,” she says.

“But not often.”

Kekona shakes her head. “Not even in fiction.”

We go back to playing tennis. Eventually, I have another question for her. “Why do you think it’s so popular? The missing-woman story?”

“Because who can resist a damsel in distress?”

* * *

• • •

The news ban in our house has always been a little fake, because all of us have the Internet on our phones. Everyone knows the DNA results. After dinner, Millicent brings me into the garage. An impromptu date night.

She wants to discuss the results with Jenna. It’s been less than a week since the hair incident, but Jenna has seemed fine since then. Even happy. Millicent is worried about a relapse. Into what, I am not sure. I am starting to think Jenna is being proactive, not paranoid. Because who wants to be abducted by a psycho/stalker/sociopath/serial killer? Not my daughter.

As we sit in the car, Millicent describes her plan for how we should approach the topic. We do not want to upset her, but we do not want to ignore the news. We do not want to talk down to Jenna, but we cannot be her friend. We want to discuss but not lecture, to comfort but not baby. Millicent keeps using the word we, as if this plan is ours, not hers.

“How is she?” I say.

“Right now, she seems fine. But last week she seemed fine, and then—”

“I’m not talking about Jenna.”

She tilts her head, confused. Annoyed. Then, clarity.

“We’re talking about Jenna,” she says.

“Is she still alive?”

“Yes.”

I want to take that question back. I want to say something that makes Millicent laugh, that makes my adrenaline surge, that makes us both feel good.

My mind is blank.

We stare at each other, her eyes so dark they look like holes. I stare until I have to either stop or ask where Naomi is.

I look away.

Millicent exhales.

I follow her back into the house. In the family room, we sit down on the couch, where Jenna and Rory are watching TV. Rory is the first to notice that we are looking at them, not the TV. He does not stick around for the talk.

It goes well, I think. Jenna listens and nods and smiles. When Millicent asks if she has any questions, Jenna shakes her head. When I ask how she feels, she says fine.

“Are you scared?” Millicent says.

Jenna reaches up and touches her short hair. “No.”

“Owen won’t hurt you.”

“I know.”

The irritated tone is reassuring. She sounds normal and looks normal, except for her hair.

* * *

• • •

Later, Millicent and I are in our room. She is organizing, walking back and forth between the bedroom and the closet, putting some things away and taking out others. She fixes everything before bed so the mornings are easier. Frantic is not her thing. Nor is being late.

I watch. Her red hair is loose, messy, and she keeps brushing it back with one hand. She wears thermals, the nubby old-fashioned kind, and striped socks. Her nighttime clothes are the least-fashionable thing about her, and I have told her how dorky they are. But I do not say that tonight. Instead, I go down the hall and check on Jenna.

She is asleep, nestled between the orange sheets under the white comforter. Her face is relaxed, peaceful. Not afraid.

Back in our room, Millicent has just gotten into bed, and I get in beside her. She looks at me, and I think she is going to mention our earlier talk in the garage. Instead, she turns out the light, like it meant nothing.