CHAPTER ONE

BECCA

March 19

With five-month-old Ivy on my hip, I stare at my cell. Buzz, I order it. Come on. It remains silent and blank. Might as well be a glass brick. Should I text again? Call?

Jenn was supposed to be back at eleven to pick up the baby. It’s eleven-thirty. And while she tends to run a little late most days, it’s usually by five or ten minutes, not thirty.

I’d chalk it up to her being busy and focused on getting ready for their trip to Cherry Reservoir, if not for the fact that she looked . . . off . . . when she brought Ivy over. Her eyes looked glassy. She seemed almost sick. I thought maybe she’d told Rick that she didn’t want to go on the trip, and they’d had a fight.

But my “Hey, are you feeling all right?” was met with “I’m fine! Be back soon.”

“You’re heading out at noon, right?” I asked. “So see you around eleven?”

“Yep,” she said, not elaborating. She waved to Ivy, who waved back. “Bye!” Then Jenn got in her car. Backing out of my driveway took her a little longer than usual. Enough that I almost ran over to see if she was sick, if I could drive her to urgent care or something. But she reached the street, waved one last time, and drove away.

Maybe all I saw was her anxiety about the trip ramping up. Rick has been looking forward to his new boat’s maiden voyage with their little family. Jenn has been worried about it ever since he got the boat a couple of weeks ago; I know that much. She doesn’t want her baby on the water—let alone in the middle of March—when it’s still so cold out.

Last week, when I suggested she refuse to go, she shrugged and shook her head. “I can’t change his mind on this one,” she said. “I’ve tried. Believe me.”

That was more than she usually does. She typically goes along with whatever crazy idea Rick gets into his head, which frustrates me to no end.

“I feel bad saying no,” she says. I’ve heard it a dozen times if once.

Just as often, she adds some version of “He’s never been able to do anything like this before.”

His first wife, Chloe, died tragically before they had kids. Forever the optimist, Jenn is determined to heal Rick’s grief with her love. She tries to give him everything he’s missed out on due to Chloe’s death, even when it’s stuff Jenn doesn’t like—or in this case, something she feels uneasy about. She usually blows me off when I stick my finger in their business. I try to stay out of it, especially when I can hear the unspoken you don’t understand; you’re divorced. And she’s right. What do I know about keeping a marriage together? I tried and failed, so maybe my advice sucks.

Regardless, the facts of the day remain: Jenn is half an hour late, and Rick will be home soon. In his view, if you’re on time, you’re late. Sometimes Jenn can be disorganized and flaky, but she goes out of her way to be on time (read: early) for him. My watching Ivy this morning was supposed to help her get everything done.

She’s scooting all over the place, Jenn texted yesterday when asking if I’d babysit. I can’t get packed with her underfoot.

I said yes. It meant rescheduling a meeting with a client to another day and working from home, but I had the sense Jenn needed me today, more than usual. Typically, if I watch Ivy during the week, it’s on a Monday, when I work from home. That’s the kids’ early-out day, and I like to be here when they get back from school.

The twins have been with their dad overnight. They’ll be home around four, so it’s been just me and Ivy, and I’ve loved it. My little ones have turned into gangly tweens with braces and hints of acne. I miss the baby era with the snuggly softness and skin that smells like a fresh promise. Plus, I never had one baby at a time. In theory, I’d love to play with Ivy all day.

Instead, I worry that Jenn fell asleep because she’s sick, or she’s stressed out and could use an extra set of hands.

Ivy’s mouth moves instinctively in a sucking motion as if she’s drinking from a bottle or her mother’s breast. So peaceful. After a moment, she fusses, so I adjust her in my arms and pat her. She takes a deep breath, which comes out unevenly as she relaxes against me. Making sure I keep the same left-right, left-right rocking motion I did with my babies, I check my phone again. My message is still unread.

I open my front door and peer down the street, hoping to see a flash of red: Jenn’s Prius turning around the corner. No red, only a white van that looks like it belongs to a utility company. I can’t get her glassy eyes out of my head. Was she sick? I think back to when she got in the car, and I think I remember her wiping her cheek—though, at the time, I thought she was brushing away a piece of hair or something, but maybe it was a tear. I could be imagining that memory. I don’t know.

Regardless, something feels off. I don’t know what.

I glance at the car seat. What if I head over to check on things? I’ll find Jenn frazzled, and I’ll help her with any final packing. Worst-case scenario, if she is sick, she could have passed out or thrown up, in which case, a friend coming over to help would be a comfort. I carefully shift Ivy into it, then ease her arms through the straps. As I secure the buckles, her face screws up with the threat of a cry.

“Sh . . .” I rock the carrier and slip her pacifier into her mouth. I seem to slip into the autopilot motions I did when the twins were this age. I suppose a mother never forgets. My body remembers. I watch my hands instinctively secure the car seat into the back of my car. I open the garage and start up the car, eager to get to Jenn’s. I’ll probably find her organizing stuff in the boat while her phone is in the house, which is why she hasn’t replied. I’ll help her out for a few minutes.

When I turn onto Jenn’s street, the boat is clearly visible, parked on the cement pad. The top is off, which means Jenn’s been getting it ready. She could appear at any moment. All is well. I overreacted.

I park in the driveway and hurry to get Ivy’s carrier out. With my hip, I push the doors shut, and then I lock the car and head for the front door. The carrier jostles as it bumps against my leg. Fortunately, Ivy is falling asleep.

When I reach the door, I glance back toward to boat. Shoot. Should have checked it first. I set the carrier down and hurry over.

“Jenn?” No response. I climb up the ladder to check inside. The boat is new and gorgeous. I go down a short flight of stairs and find a full-size bed and kitchenette. Several grocery sacks of food are on the counter and bed. She must be inside the house.

Feeling more assured, I climb down from the boat and head back to Ivy. I’ll find Jenn inside, distracted by something—maybe by a headline on Twitter. We’ll laugh about my worry and her forgetfulness.

Don’t worry, I picture myself telling her. We’ll get the packing done.

I ring the doorbell. As I wait, an awful possibility plays out in my mind: Jenn is eating lunch, maybe a bowl of reheated stew, and she chokes on a piece of meat. She’s unable to perform the Heimlich on herself. As a single mother, I’ve envisioned plenty of similar things like that about myself when I’m alone. It’s one more reason it’s nice my kids are a little older now. They know to call Maura, the nurse down the street, or 911.

When I hear no footsteps, I press the doorbell again, but I wait all of two seconds before deciding to use the keyless entry pad. Jenn and Rick gave me the code for when they go out of town so I can water their plants and bring in their mail.

“Jenn?” I call, stepping inside. “It’s me. Just came over to be sure you’re okay.”

I step deeper into the house and look around. Jenn isn’t in the kitchen. She’s not behind the island on the floor either. A choking incident is unlikely. The thought doesn’t reassure me as I expected it to.

Jenn’s lime-green purse sits on the edge of the island. Her phone is beside it. I peer inside the purse; her keys and wallet are inside. A dirty glass is on the counter with what looks like remnants of a green smoothie. She’s got to be here somewhere. After setting the baby carrier onto the kitchen floor, I walk to the laundry room and half bath. Both are off the kitchen. Both are empty. I open the door to the garage. There’s Jenn’s car. She’s got to be home.

I close the garage door and turn around. The sliding glass door to the backyard greets me. Jenn’s probably not out there. I check anyway. I walk over and peer through the glass. No sign of her, but I can’t see the entire yard from this vantage, so I unlock the door and slide it open. Stepping onto the deck, I call, “Jenn?”

No response. I nearly close the door, but then imagine her collapsed behind a bush. I race across the deck and run around the yard. Within a minute, I’ve searched the entire backyard but found nothing. When I close the sliding door behind me, Ivy starts to fuss. I find her pacifier and pop it into her mouth, then pick up the carrier again. I slip my phone into my back pocket and head upstairs. I’ll look there next.

With each stair, the carrier feels heavier. My anxiety multiplies, making my stomach twist. What I wouldn’t give to hear my phone go off with Jenn’s ring tone, Steven Tyler’s high-pitched scream from “Dream On.”

At the doorway to the master bedroom, I stop, as if stepping inside would be encroaching on a space I have no right to be in. That’s odd, seeing as I’ve been there lots of times. Jenn and I have watched movies on the king-size bed. We’ve spent hours talking in there, especially when Rick’s out of town when the kids are with their dad.

This feels different. Maybe it’s the drawn curtains dimming the room. Or the double doors leading into the master bathroom. They’re closed. I’ve never seen them closed. “Jenn?”

Nothing.

Hesitantly, I cross the threshold into the bedroom. Jenn isn’t on the bed. I check the floor on both sides. Reluctantly, I turn to the closed bathroom doors. My middle tightens. Swallowing is impossible. I set the baby carrier down. She’s starting to protest, but I can’t hold her right now.

I reach for the door handles with shaking hands and send a prayer to anyone listening, asking for the guts to open them. Because in some horrible way, I’m afraid to. I’m afraid I’ll see something I’ll never be able to erase from my mind. I want to run away, go back home, forget I ever came over.

But I can’t. Jenn is my best friend. If she’s in the bathroom and something is wrong, I need to be brave enough to help her. I push the doors open.

And there, Jenn lies in the large corner tub, eyes staring up sightlessly through the water.