the pie into the oven and slammed the door. I felt a familiar rush of fondness for her.

She sighed, leaning against the stove. “You know, except for Tim, you’re the only one who ever does that.”

Uh-oh. What had I done? “Does what?”

“Pins me down. Makes me say what’s bothering me. Always knows when something’s bothering me.”

“Well, you’re not exactly subtle about it.”

“What? I’ve been completely calm and composed.” She yanked a dish towel off the rack.

“Right, Completely. A moment ago, if I’d said another word— another syllable—I’d have been wearing that pie.”

She grinned. “No, I never waste my pies. Maybe a bowl of flour, but not a pie.” She sighed and sat on a stool. “But you’re right. I’m on overload. I’m nuts. Completely bananas.” Her eyes wandered to the wall clock. “Speaking of nuts and bananas, it’s time for dinner. Staying?”

“As long as it’s not finger food,” I smiled. “Or hand and cheese.”

Susan winced. “No. Today’s special is knuckle sandwiches.” She handed me a cutting board. “Here, give me a hand.”

“Hey, I’m the guest. Guests don’t have to lift a finger.”

“Yes they do, just not the middle one.”

“Oh, cut it out.”

“Just chop the damn carrots. Watch your aim.” “Quartered or sliced?”

“And skinned.” She threw a tomato at me. “Heads up.” Lettuce flew into my arms. Something green—a cucumber?—whizzed past me onto the counter. Scallions and then a green pepper bounced off my shoulder. I dodged, laughing, and caught the endive midair.

“Shut up and cut up.” She dropped a knife onto the cutting board, raised her index fingers, and, waving them, shimmied to the stove. Manic again.

So I chopped. Being busy felt good. The carrots were not body parts. Susan and I were making salad and frying flounder, easing back into the steady rhythm of our friendship.

Susan poured us each a glass of wine. We sipped and talked. I felt the tension ease out of me. My shoulders felt lighter and my neck looser. I’d almost completely relaxed by the time Lisa and Julie thundered in, flushed, shouting, tripping over the dog.

“Mom!”

“Mom! Guess what—”

“Guess who was on the news!”

“Remember Claudia? She sat for us? She’s—”

“She’s the third one—”

“—missing!”

Susan and I got to the television just as the picture switched from a young woman’s snapshot to the anchor.

“... five-month-old girl,” he said, “was found unharmed at home, asleep in a laundry basket. Like the other two missing childcare workers, Claudia Rusk disappeared in broad daylight, while working. We’ll keep you posted as police release further information. In other news, an Amtrak train—”

Susan snapped off the television. Her face was dark, drained. “No more TV,” she announced.

“But Mom, what happened to Claudia?”

“I don’t know. Set the table,” Susan breathed. “Zoe and Molly are staying for dinner.”

“She’s the third one missing. What’s going on? Do you think she was kidnapped?” Lisa squealed.

“No, stupid,” Julie replied. “Why would they kidnap the babysitter and not the baby?”

“Because of sex, stupid,” Lisa shook her head. “You’re too young to understand.”

“I am not—”

“That’s enough,” Susan yelled. “Stop it, both of you. We don’t know what happened. There’s nothing we can do about it, and it’s not our business, so let’s just have our dinner in peace. Go set the table.”

Muttering, the girls stomped into the kitchen. Susan stared vacantly after them. White knuckled, she held on to her ring finger, twisting her wedding band.

“Susan?” I asked. “Who’s Claudia?”

THREE

CLAUDIA RUSK WORKED FOR SUSAN’S NEIGHBOR. SHE WAS A friend of Susan’s nanny, Bonita, and had helped Susan on many occasions when Bonita couldn’t. Like Bonita, Claudia was a college student at night, earning tuition as a nanny by day. Now, Claudia had disappeared, leaving the neighbor’s baby in the laundry room, stuffed in a basket among dirty towels and undershirts. It made no sense. Why would she do that? Where had she gone? Why?

I thought about Claudia as I tucked Molly in. I thought about her as I went downstairs, made myself a cup of tea, and snuggled under an afghan on my overstuffed crimson chair. I thought about her as I laid my head back and closed my eyes. Stop worrying, I told myself. Worrying won’t help. There’s nothing you can do about Claudia or her disappearance. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if, on the day she disappeared, Claudia had been wearing red nail polish.

I took deep breaths. I told myself to center my energy, not to think of the finger, Claudia, or the other missing women. Our doors were locked; Molly and I were secure inside our