Chapter 4

I stood in the living room, looking over every corner.

If I were Willow, I wouldn't leave anything important lying around where anyone could see it.

She was way too careful for that.

I remembered that paper bag Taylor gave her last night.

Taylor had said. "It's for the kid. Don't let him go buying random stuff."

She probably didn't have the bag anymore.

Taylor handed it to her, and she took it with her.

But since she came by every day, there had to be some trace of her coming and going.

I opened the entryway cabinet.

Inside, there were shoe covers, an umbrella, and a few spare masks.

On the bottom shelf, there was an old cloth bag.

It was Willow's grocery bag.

I crouched down and pulled the bag out.

There was a receipt tucked inside, a convenience store receipt, dated 9:57 PM, just last night.

It listed two cartons of milk, a children's toothbrush, and a pack of Ultraman trading cards.

I couldn't take my eyes off the words "children's toothbrush." My throat tightened.

Isobel didn't even have teeth yet.

She had no use for a toothbrush.

The store's address was printed at the bottom of the receipt.

It was close to home.

And it was near Taylor's work too.

I snapped a photo and put the receipt back where I found it.

Isobel let out a couple of soft coos from the bedroom.

I hurried over and scooped her up.

Her tiny hands grabbed onto my collar, and she made some soft, indistinct sounds.

I kissed her forehead.

"It's okay," I whispered. "I'm here."

But I knew something was definitely wrong.

And this wasn't some minor issue.

*****

At ten in the morning, the housekeeping agency called to check in.

When I first signed up, I'd asked about Willow's background.

The woman on the other end sounded really polite.

"Ms. Sargent, are you satisfied with Willow's service lately?" she asked.

"Yeah, it's been fine," I replied. "Can you tell me who she worked for before?"

The woman paused for a moment.

"Sorry, that's against our policy," she said.

"Did your agency recommend her to me?"

"No, she wasn't."

I heard her shuffling through some papers on the other end.

"Actually, your husband was the one who handpicked Willow," she said.

I squeezed the phone tighter in my hand. "He chose her himself?"

"Yes. Mr. Francis gave us Willow's name himself. He said he knew her from before and felt comfortable with her."

I didn't say anything.

The woman added, "But really, Ms. Sargent, Willow's got all her paperwork and tons of experience taking care of kids, so you don't need to worry."

"Has she ever looked after a boy?"

"She has."

"Is there any info on that?"

"It only says she took care of a boy for a long time."

"What was the boy's name?"

The woman sounded a bit awkward. "I'm sorry, I really can't tell you that."

I pressed, "Was his last name Francis?"

There was a long silence on the other end.

That silence was all the answer I needed.

I hung up.

All that was left in the room was the sound of Isobel fiddling with her cloth book.

She had no idea.

She had no idea how many secrets adults kept hidden behind closed doors, or how much truth was tucked away in those paper bags.

Willow came back around noon.

She'd picked up some vegetables, fish, and fruit.

When she saw me sitting in the living room, she smiled and asked,

"Mrs. Francis, would you like something light for lunch today?" Willow asked gently.

I gave her a smile.

"Anything's fine," I said.

I didn't mention the housekeeping agency.

I didn't mention the receipt either.

Once she was in the kitchen, I grabbed my phone and listened to the recording I'd saved from last night.

I turned the volume as low as possible and listened again and again.

Right at the end, just before she picked up the phone, I heard Willow quietly say a name as Isobel babbled.

"Freddie," she whispered.

It wasn't a nickname.

It was his name.

She said, "Freddie's coming back soon."

I snipped that bit out and saved it to the cloud.

*****

At four in the afternoon, Taylor texted me. [Friday dinner, might be late.]

I stared at that message for a long time.

I sent back a single word: [Okay.]

After Willow left that evening, I headed out with the address from the receipt in hand.

The convenience store was right at the entrance of an old neighborhood.

The clerk recognized Willow right away.

"Oh, her? She comes here all the time," the clerk said. "She's always buying stuff for a little boy."

I asked, "How old is the boy?"

"He's probably five or six."

The clerk paused, thinking. "He's pretty skinny, and his eyes look just like Mr. Francis."

I froze.

The clerk clammed up, realizing he'd said too much.

I stepped out of the store and it was already dark.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed.

A strange number sent me a photo.

In the photo, Taylor was standing outside a kindergarten.

He crouched down and wrapped his arms around a little boy.

The boy clutched a pack of Ultraman trading cards, gazing up at him.

A line of text sat beneath the photo. [Don't ask Willow. Ask your husband. Five years ago, outside the delivery room, he signed the consent forms.]

I stood outside the convenience store, the wind biting at my neck.

I kept zooming in on that photo, over and over.