Prologue

Pauline Barker-Davis would not report her daughter missing for three days. On that first morning, matter of fact, she had more immediate concerns.

Molly was going to make them late for lunch.

At 9:40 a.m. on Saturday, November 1st, Pauline climbed the staircase of their Chicago home, fastening a gold earring as she went. Molly was expected downstairs by ten, dressed appropriately for lunch with her aunt at eleven, an engagement she’d spent much of the previous evening protesting. Pauline had listened to enough complaints about it already and had no intention of entertaining another argument.

“Molly?” she called, rapping her knuckles against the bedroom door. “It’s nine forty. You need to get up.”

She waited, expecting the familiar groan that greeted almost every attempt to wake her daughter before noon.

Nothing.

“Molly, come on. We’re not doing this today.”

Pauline turned the handle and pushed open the door.

The bed was empty, its sheets tangled around a collection of decorative pillows Molly had never bothered arranging properly. Clothing lay scattered across the carpet, an unfinished gown hung from a dressmaker’s mannequin, and several fashion illustrations had been abandoned beneath makeup brushes and half-empty coffee cups. A cold November breeze stirred the curtains beside an open window.

Of course.

Pauline stepped over a pair of ridiculous pink boots and crossed the room to shut it.

That girl must want to get sick, she thought to herself.

On the desk, a half-finished sketch had been marred by a brown, sticky stain. She lifted one corner between her fingers, examined the damage, and let it fall.

Four thousand dollars plus she’d spent having this room redecorated over the summer. Molly had needed barely three months to make it look like this.

She checked the adjoining bathroom, then the sitting room across the hall. Both were empty. Returning to the bedroom, she noticed Molly’s phone charger still plugged into the wall, although the phone itself was nowhere to be seen.

Pauline took out her own and called.

Four rings. Voicemail.

She ended the call and typed a message instead.

Where are you? Call me.

Yet another family gathering thrown off by Molly's dramatics.

Downstairs, James was settled at the kitchen island, one leg crossed over the other as he studied his laptop screen. He’d pushed his reading glasses low on his nose, a habit that made him look both studious and dismissive. 

Beside his cooling breakfast sat his leather briefcase, unlatched and waiting, and a thick folder labeled Henderson Placements. He hummed faintly, a sound of self-satisfaction, as he scrolled through columns of figures.

“Have you seen your daughter?” Pauline asked as she entered, her black leather wedges tapping against the polished floor.

James glanced up. “Morning to you, too.”

She felt the familiar prickle of irritation crawling up her neck.

“I’m serious, asshole," she said, opening the kitchen curtains. "And why aren’t you getting dressed? We’re supposed to leave in less than an hour.”

He checked his watch. “No, I haven’t seen Molly. Why?”

“Because she’s not upstairs, and she isn’t answering her phone. I thought she said last night she'd be home before 8 AM?”

“She's still at that girl’s place. The one with the... the pink hair.” He paused, tapping two fingers against the table as if trying to physically dislodge the name from his memory. “Karen? Kaitlyn?”

Pauline huffed. “Kara, James.”

“Right. Kara. Probably overslept.”

“Well, she's supposed to be home by now. And what if she isn’t there?”

He returned his attention to the laptop. “What if, right?”

Pauline stopped beside the island, her hand hovering near her temple as if to smooth away a forming headache.

“Seriously? Is that all you have to say?”

The olive-green blouse felt suddenly tight across her shoulders.

“Pauline, she’s a teenager,” James replied, tapping a figure into the spreadsheet. “She acts like one. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“She could’ve called.”

“Yeah, could've, should've, would've. It’s Molly.”

Pauline tucked a loose strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, only for another to slip free.

“I mean," she sighed, "...don’t you think this is getting a little ridiculous?”

“What is?”

“This whole rebellious phase of hers. She thinks she can do whatever she wants, go wherever she wants, and we’re just supposed to put up with it.”

James glanced at the clock above the kitchen doorway. “Have you tried calling Kara?”

“I don’t have her number.”

“Then go over there. I guarantee you she's there.”

“Fine." Pauline retrieved her handbag from the counter, adjusting its strap over her shoulder. "Let's see if you're right.”

“Great.” He resumed typing. “I'm sure I will be.”

The small jade pendant at her collarbone shifted as Pauline swept her curtain bangs away from her eyes and perched a pair of dark, oval-framed sunglasses on her head.

“And don’t forget we’re supposed to be at your sister’s by eleven.”

James glanced at his watch yet again.

“Yeah, about that. I might have to skip lunch. Something came up.”

Pauline stopped halfway to the doorway. The flared hems of her black trousers settled around her ankles as she turned.

Her hand, still holding the strap of her bag, went slack. “Excuse me?”

James didn’t look up from his laptop. “I’ve got a meeting with Henderson at noon. He’s only here for the weekend, and I need to catch him before he leaves.”

“James!” The name came out sharp. “We agreed to this two weeks ago.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, finally lifting his gaze, though it held no apology. “But this came up yesterday.”

"Then you should’ve told me yesterday. Jesus.”

“I would’ve,” he said, the words clipped, “but you and Molly were too busy screaming at each other all night. I could hear you from my study—something about a party, a boy, New York. I wasn’t about to walk into that.”

James’s eyes lifted from his screen to meet hers over the rim of his coffee cup. He recognized the tightness around her mouth, the slight flare of her nostrils. It changed nothing.

Pauline's expression settled into one of cool disapproval. “Fine. Then you can call your sister and tell her we’ll have to reschedule. I’m certainly not explaining it to her.”

***

Kara Darbey opened the front door wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of pajama shorts, her pink-dyed hair pulled into a messy ponytail. One hand clutched the oversized sleeve of her sweatshirt while the other shielded her eyes. She was still rubbing sleep from one eye when she recognized the woman standing on the porch.

“Mrs. Davis? Hi.”

“Good morning, Kara.” Pauline offered a tight smile. “Sorry to drop by so early. Is Molly here?”

Kara lowered her hand. “No. Why?”

“She hasn’t come home, and she isn’t answering my calls. I thought maybe she spent the night here.”

“Oh.” Kara glanced past Pauline toward the Porsche parked along the curb. “No, she didn’t.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Thursday, at school.”

“And you haven’t talked to her since?”

“Yesterday morning, I think.” Kara paused. “Wait, did she tell you she was coming here?”

“She said she might stay with you. Apparently, that was another lie.”

Kara’s expression shifted.

“Shit.”

Pauline raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Kara muttered. “It’s just, she told me she was gonna sneak out to that Halloween party. I didn’t think she’d tell you she was coming here.”

Pauline closed her eyes briefly. “A party," she whispered. "Of course.”

“She’s gonna kill me for telling you that,” Kara added, attempting a laugh.

“Well, perhaps she should’ve thought about that before deciding to sneak out.”

Kara’s smile faded.

Pauline adjusted the strap of her handbag. “Did she say where she was planning to stay afterward? With another friend, maybe?”

“Not to me.”

“A boy?”

Kara frowned. “What boy?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. That’s why I’m asking.”

Kara held her gaze. “No, she didn’t say anything about a boy.”

Across the street, a woman was unloading grocery bags from the trunk of a Mercedes. Pauline waited until she’d disappeared into the house before continuing.

“Look, Kara, you two tell each other everything. If Molly’s staying somewhere, I need you to be straight with me.”

“I am being straight with you.” Kara’s tone was suddenly brittle. “I didn’t even go to that party. I have no idea where she is.”

“All right. No need to get upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

Pauline’s thumb brushed the cold glass of her phone: 10:47.

“Well, if you hear from her, tell her to call home. She’s supposed to be at a family lunch in less than twenty, and now we'll have to reschedule because she’s decided to sleep in somewhere.”

“Okay,” Kara said, although she no longer seemed particularly interested in the conversation.

Pauline gave her a small smile. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

She started down the porch steps.

“Wait.”

Pauline turned.

Kara had followed her onto the porch, barefoot despite the cold.

“Has she seriously not answered anybody?”

“Apparently not.”

“Not even a text?”

“No, Kara.”

Kara looked down at her own phone.

“That’s weird.”

Pauline sighed. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

“Yeah, but—” Kara stopped, reconsidering. “Could you just let me know when she does? I’ve been trying to call her, too.”

“Of course.”

“And tell her to call me.”

“I will.”

Kara watched Pauline descend the steps and climb into her car. She remained on the porch until the Porsche disappeared around the corner, then opened her phone and tried Molly’s number again.

Pauline, meanwhile, was already preparing the lecture she intended to deliver when her daughter finally came home.

***

James was in the hall mirror, clasping his watch. He’d changed into a dark suit and was adjusting his tie as Pauline entered. His hair, honey blonde like Molly’s, was combed neatly back from his forehead. He caught her eye in the glass.

“Well?” James asked, still facing the mirror.

Pauline’s keys clattered into the ceramic dish. “She’s not there. Apparently, she snuck off to some party.”

He turned. “What?”

“Yeah. She isn’t answering anyone. Not even Kara.”

James let out a short, dismissive breath. “Okay, so we'll figure out whose party. Would you just relax?"

Pauline followed him into the kitchen.

“That’s not the point.”

“I know the point. She’s being a pain in the ass again. In another one of her moods.” He picked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “And I don’t have time for this today.”

“Of course you don’t.”

James let his hand fall to his side and gave her an exasperated look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pauline waved a hand and turned away from him. “Nothing. God forbid anything interfere.”

He shut the drawer he'd been searching through, a little harder than necessary. “Pauline, please. This is important."

“So is your daughter.”

He faced her fully now. “Look—she pulled this exact stunt six months ago. Wearing that boy’s sweatshirt, carrying her Dunkin’ iced coffee like nothing happened. Two days we spent calling everyone while she was at his apartment.”

Pauline settled into the closest chair. “You really think she’s with him again?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“After everything?”

“She came home perfectly fine last time.”

“That boy was disgusting. Poor. Smelled like weed.” She flicked a stray hair away from her face with an irritated sigh. “I still can’t imagine what she would see in a loser like that.”

James gave a dry laugh. “Apparently she saw something.”

“Don’t be smart.”

He slipped his keys into his pocket. “She’s pissed off about New York. Everything’s a fight. She wants a reaction.”

“Well she’s getting one.” Pauline folded her arms. “Maybe I should call the police.”

James stopped halfway through fastening his jacket. “The police? Seriously? You want a squad car outside so the whole neighborhood can talk? Remember the Cottrills?”

“That was different.”

“Doesn’t matter. And when she comes home and finds out? She’ll tell everyone we sent a SWAT team after her because she didn’t answer her phone.”

Pauline could picture it: Molly at some café, laughing.

“She would,” she admitted.

“Exactly. Let her come home on her own.” James finished buttoning his jacket and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back at three. I'll call my sister and tell her we need to reschedule lunch.”

***

Just before noon, Pauline returned to Molly’s bedroom.

She had begun to find James’s explanation increasingly plausible. There had been the incident in the spring, after all, and Molly had never been particularly concerned with rules she considered unreasonable.

If she’d gone away for the weekend, she must have taken something with her.

Pauline opened the closet.

Shelves were crowded with shoes, designer handbags, and expensive clothes Molly rarely bothered hanging properly. A pink feather boa had become tangled around the handle of a suitcase. Beneath it sat a box of heels Pauline had purchased for her daughter, only to discover that Molly considered them too boring to wear.

She pushed the boa aside, then noticed an empty space on the shelf above.

Molly’s overnight bag was gone—the vintage Betsey Johnson one Pauline had gifted her for Christmas. A cream-colored duffel covered in colorful telephone receivers and looping cursive, with metallic gold straps and a glittery pair of lips dangling from one of the handles. Molly had practically squealed when she'd unwrapped it.

Interesting.

Pauline reached up and moved a folded sweater out of the way.

Nothing.

She checked behind the suitcase, then crouched to look beneath the hanging clothes, pushing aside a pair of shoes with the back of her hand.

Still nothing.

Her attention settled on the hooks attached to the closet door.

The crochet jacket Molly had recently bought off Etsy was missing, too. The ridiculous little thing with the oversized sleeves and uneven stitching that Pauline couldn't believe anyone would willingly pay money for.

She straightened, brushing a bit of dust from her knee.

“Well. There you go.”

That settled it, then.

Molly hadn't disappeared without a trace. She'd packed herself a bag and gone somewhere, presumably with every intention of making her parents worry.

Pauline retrieved her phone and called James.

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey. Everything okay? I'm about to go into this meeting.”

“Her overnight bag is missing.”

“What?”

“Her overnight bag, James. The Betsey one I bought her for Christmas. It's gone.”

There was a brief silence, followed by the muffled sound of James speaking to someone else.

“Hang on a second,” he said, apparently to the other person. Then, more clearly, “Okay. See? That's what I was saying.”

“And her jacket's gone, too.”

“Which jacket?”

“That crocheted monstrosity she ordered online. The one she won't leave the house without.”

“Oh. Right.”

Pauline made a face. “Honestly, I don't know why I bother buying her nice clothes.”

“So she packed a bag,” James continued. “She obviously planned to stay somewhere.”

“Well, apparently.”

“There you go.”

Pauline considered the empty shelf.

“I bet she's with Rocky.”

“Maybe.”

“No, I really think that's where she's gone. It makes perfect sense, doesn't it? She's angry with us, so naturally she runs straight back to the one person she knows we can't stand.”

“Pauline—”

“Unbelievable. After everything we went through getting her away from him.”

“Look, we don't know for sure she's with him.”

“Well, who else would she be with? Kara hasn't seen her. Nobody's heard from her. And now half her things are missing. Clearly, she ran away.”

“She has other friends.”

“Not ones she'd go running off to in the middle of the night.”

James sighed. “I'm just saying, let's not start making accusations until we've actually spoken to her or at least the other kids at that party.”

Pauline scoffed. “James, I've been trying to reach her all morning. She won't answer her phone.”

“Just wait until we cancel her credit cards. Bet she'll answer then.”

“And when she does, she's going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Agreed.”

Pauline wandered out of the closet, her slippers sinking into the thick bedroom carpet.

“I'm keeping her car keys for another month.”

“Okay.”

“And her credit card, like you said. She can forget about having access to that for a while.”

“Fine.”

“And she's not going anywhere for the rest of the month. No parties, no sleepovers, nothing. She can go to school and come straight home, and if she doesn't like it, that's just too bad.”

“Sounds good.”

Pauline frowned. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, hon.”

“Because you keep saying 'okay' as if we're discussing dinner plans.”

“There are people around.” His voice lowered. “I'm agreeing with you. What else would you like me to say?”

“I'd like you to show a little interest in what your daughter is doing.”

“I am interested. But we both know how Molly gets when she's upset, and I don't see what good it's going to do to spend the entire morning arguing about it.”

In the background, a man's voice called something Pauline couldn't quite make out. James covered the receiver, though not well enough to muffle his response.

“He's pulling in? Are you sure?" Silence. Then, still to the other person, "Just give me one moment.”

Pauline closed her eyes. “Stupid meetings.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I have to go. Henderson's here. I really can't keep him waiting.”

“I'm sure you can't.”

“Please don't start.”

“I'm not starting anything, James. Go to your meeting.”

A pause.

“All right. We'll talk about it when I get home.”

“If she decides to grace us with her presence by then.”

“Right. Okay. Love you.”

The call ended before Pauline had an opportunity to answer. She lowered the phone and stared at the screen.

Typical.

James had a remarkable ability to remove himself from unpleasant situations the moment they began interfering with his schedule. Of course, he'd have plenty to say when Molly finally came home. He always did. But until then, Pauline supposed she'd be left to deal with the practicalities.

And there would be practicalities.

She was beginning to think the only reasonable course of action would be to remove every privilege Molly possessed. No car, no credit card, no parties, and certainly no spending the night at anybody's apartment. Perhaps then she'd learn to appreciate what she had.

Pauline slipped her phone into her pocket and continued surveying the bedroom.

The unmade bed, the clothes scattered across the floor, the cosmetics littering the dressing table. Even in her absence, Molly seemed determined to make a nuisance of herself.

Pauline crossed to the dressing table and began opening drawers, looking for the pearl earrings Molly had borrowed several weeks earlier. They were an expensive Tiffany pair, and Molly had somehow managed to misplace them almost immediately after Pauline requested their return.

The first drawer was cluttered with makeup, hair ties, and crumpled receipts. Pauline rummaged through it briefly before moving on to the next, where an assortment of costume jewelry had been carelessly tossed together. She lifted a tangled necklace, examined the mess beneath it, and pushed aside several bracelets.

Her fingers brushed against something that crinkled.

Wedged beneath a compact mirror was a small, transparent plastic bag. Pauline pulled it free, initially taking little notice of it until she saw the fine white powder caught in its folds.

She turned it between her fingers, examining what little remained inside.

For a moment, she wondered whether it might be some sort of cosmetic. Molly had a habit of leaving makeup everywhere, and Pauline wouldn't have been particularly surprised to find another spilled powder among her belongings.

But makeup didn't generally come in little plastic bags like this.

Pauline knew perfectly well what they were used for. She'd learned more than she'd ever wanted to about drugs during Molly's involvement with Rocky, and she had certainly hoped those conversations were behind them.

Apparently not.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

She examined the bag once more, as though expecting to discover some reasonable explanation she'd overlooked.

There wasn't one.

First the overnight bag, then the missing jacket, and now this. It was becoming increasingly difficult to imagine that Molly had gone anywhere other than straight back to Rocky.

After everything they'd done to separate her from that boy.

Pauline regarded the bag with undisguised contempt. The sheer audacity of it—to bring such filth into their home—left her momentarily speechless.

She retrieved a tissue from the box on the dressing table and carefully placed the little bag inside it. Then she carried it over to Molly's bed, where she arranged it on one of the decorative pillows.

She started toward the door, but stopped after a few steps.

Turning back, she adjusted the tissue so that the bag was plainly visible to anyone entering the room.

There. That ought to do it.

Let Molly try explaining that when she comes home.