“Red, thank you,” I say, smiling. But she just swivels in her clunky sandals and clip-clops down the long hallway.

Platters of food line the glass coffee table. There are big ribs of celery stuffed with pimento cheese, tea sandwiches with the crusts trimmed off, small discs of quiche, and a mountain of chilled grapes.

“Rosa,” Callie calls toward the kitchen, “would you bring me more red as well?”

Seconds later, the housekeeper appears with our wine. I take a small sip—it’s pure velvet—and immediately take a longer gulp.

The front door opens, light spilling in, and there’s Margot, sashaying through the entryway, blowing air-kisses at Rosa, who rushes over to her, gives her a tight hug.

Margot’s in short, black dress shorts, and my eyes, as usual, drink in her exquisite legs. She’s wearing a white boatneck shirt and strappy black heels. Her oversize sunglasses stay parked on her face, even as she coasts toward Jill and pulls her into her arms. The two stay locked together, swaying slightly from side to side as Margot speaks lowly in Jill’s ear, stroking her hair while she talks.

They finally pull apart and Margot removes her glasses and plops down into an armchair.

Rosa is soon at Margot’s side with a glass of chilled white.

“So, what’s the latest, honey?” Margot asks Jill.

“Nothing. Nobody’s heard from Abby at all. Brad’s been texting her constantly, of course,” Jill says, staring down at her hands. “Her family’s heard nothing, the police have heard nothing. It makes no sense.” She sighs, her breath blowing her bangs toward the ceiling. “Brad’s distraught. We all are.”

Rosa is now parked behind Margot with a hand on her shoulder, as if Margot’s the one in distress. Watching Margot lap up Rosa’s attention slightly grosses me out—she looks like an entitled child.

“That’ll be all for now, Rosa,” Callie says, dismissing her. Rosa slinks dutifully from the room.

I grab a celery stick and sneak in a few crunchy bites to put something in my stomach.

Margot leans back in her chair, swirls her wine around in the glass.

“I’m just so sorry, Jilly,” Tina says, a hand placed over her heart. “We know how close they are, and I feel so awful for sweet Brad.” She pulls her face into a frown but I can see that glint in her eyes, that flicker of excitement.

Jill drains her wine, parks the empty glass on a nearby coaster. “But the strange thing is, they evidently had a fight that night.”

Her gaze is trained on her lap as she continues. “Brad has apparently been trying to end things with Abby. I had no idea, of course, so I’m absolutely shocked by that as well, but he told me he felt that their relationship has taken too much of his focus off of football, and college.” She lifts her eyes, then looks around at each of us as if for confirmation.

I find myself nodding, because I don’t know how else to react.

Callie rests her hand on Jill’s knee, a gesture that coaxes her to continue talking.

“That night,” Jill says, “Brad went to dinner with Abby and her parents. Afterward, he tried to break it off and she flipped out.”

Jill dabs at her eyes with the remains of the Kleenex. Tina passes her a fresh one. “He said that Abby got hysterical, went ballistic on him, wouldn’t stop crying, threatened suicide. He told me she’d threatened this before,” Jill adds, sucking in a deep breath and then exhaling.

I remember Brad saying that in his text, that Abby had threatened to slit her wrists. I wonder if he’s telling the truth. Abby seemed stable, grounded. But what the hell do I know? She is a teenage girl after all.

“I had no idea any of this was going on,” Jill says. “She demanded that Brad drop her off at the top of her driveway that night instead of seeing her inside. He was so rattled afterward that he spent the rest of the evening with his friend, Jamie, driving around, blowing off steam. He can’t imagine what’s happened to Abby, and he’s so mad at himself for not walking her to the front door.”

I flick my eyes to Margot to try and read her expression, but she has her nose in her wineglass.

“If she doesn’t come home safely,” Jill continues, her voice cracking, “the guilt is going to eat my son alive.”

The room falls silent except for the whishing of the outdoor fountain and the faint sounds of Rosa washing dishes in the kitchen. Jill looks depleted, all the makeup drained off her face from crying. She slumps back into the sofa, tucks her feet underneath her.

Margot sets her drink down on the glass coffee table and smooths the tops of her shorts with her hands. “Well, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. It’s only been a few days.”

Jill looks up at her, nods as if she’s grateful, and fresh tears pool in her eyes. “You’re right, I know. It’s true. I need to keep it together.”

“I’m sure Abby’s just fine; I’m sure she’ll pop back up in no time,” Tina interjects, placing her hand on Jill’s arm and briskly rubbing it up and down. “Breakups are hard, especially at that age. She could just be trying to sort things out.”

Margot rises, goes over to Jill. “I’ve gotta get going, sweetie, but call me later tonight. And, please, let us know the second you hear anything.”

They hug and Margot makes her way out the front door. Her sudden departure feels abrupt, but it doesn’t seem to faze Jill, and I’m itching to get out of here, too, so I take advantage of the moment and stand up.

“I’ve gotta run as well,” I say and lean down to Jill to give her a quick hug. She ropes an arm around my neck and rubs my back like she’s trying to soothe me; my heart crumbles for her grief-ridden awkwardness.

* * *

—

OUTSIDE, I SIT in my steamy SUV for a few minutes before starting the engine. I watch Margot fade smaller and smaller down the sidewalk as she walks toward home. But not so small that I don’t see her sliding her cell from her bag. I don’t even need to guess at what she’s doing. The mounting unease in my gut tells me that she’s calling Brad.

40

I’VE BEEN HOME from Callie’s for over an hour. I should be folding laundry, prepping dinner, but I’m back online, looking for Abby.

I’m sipping a strong cup of Earl Grey, hoping the pipe tobacco–flavored liquid will cut through my afternoon wine buzz. My fingers peck at the keyboard, wearing down the same online paths as earlier—the Mapleton Times, Facebook—but to no avail. Nothing has changed since this morning.

I arrow the mouse to the top of the screen, close the browser, and am staring at my latest screensaver—a pink-hued photo of the New Mexico desert—when I hear a car door slam.

I hop up and head down the hallway. Peer out a window to see a black Mercedes parked out front and Margot making her way up the front steps. The doorbell chimes and I suck in a quick breath before opening it.

“Heeeey,” she says. She slides her sunglasses back on her head, leans toward me. She slips a hand around my neck, her lips grazing my cheek. Her skin smells intoxicating, and I have to stifle the urge to turn my face toward hers so that our lips meet. Before I can even react, she drops her hand, leans against the doorjamb.

“Wanna come inside?” My pulse pounds through my veins, and hot sheets of wind melt the air-conditioned chill inside the house.

“I’d love to,” she says, her eyes direct and level with mine. “But I can’t stay. Just needed to stop by.”

“Oh?” I ask, not sure of what to do with myself, so I cross my arms in front of me. Of course she didn’t come over here to make out with me, and given everything that’s going on, I’m repulsed by my desire. And it’s achingly obvious that her pull over me hasn’t dimmed one bit.

“Listen, if anybody asks you about Friday night,” she says, “just tell them I was with you.”

Now my pulse is pounding in my temples and I shift my weight between my feet. And as if she can sense my wariness, she quickly adds, “I’m sure they won’t, but if they do . . .”

She reaches down for my wrist, takes it in her hand. Heat rises along my arm as she holds it; her eyes are trained down at the ground between us, and an almost sheepish look spreads across her face.

“Look, I can’t have anyone finding out about me and Brad. No one needs to know. Especially Jed.” She locks her eyes onto mine. “You understand, I’m sure.”

And she doesn’t even have to say Jamie’s name because it hangs in the air, suspended between us. A clear threat.

She drops my wrist, and before I can answer, her lips are on mine. A quick peck before she spins around and floats down the steps to her car. “Gotta run and grab the kiddos from school,” she calls over her shoulder, blowing an air-kiss my way.

Back inside, I slump against the entryway wall. My entire body is shaking; I don’t know what to do.