Georgia Bellarminowould never have known, if it hadn’t been for the cereal box.

Georgia was on the phone with a client in New York, an investment banker who had just gotten a DOE appointment; they were talking about the house he was buying for his family move to Rockville, Maryland. Georgia, who was Best-Selling Realtor of the Year in Rockville for three years running, was busy going over the terms of the purchase when her sixteen-year-old daughter, Jennifer, called from the kitchen, “Mom, I’m late for school. Where’s the cereal?”

“On the kitchen table.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Look again.”

“Mom, it’s empty! Jimmy must have eaten it.”

Mrs. Bellarmino covered the phone with her hand. “Then get another box, Jen,” she said. “You’re sixteen; you’re not helpless.”

“Where is it?” Jennifer said.

Banging doors in the kitchen.

“Look above the oven,” Mrs. Bellarmino said.

“I did. It’s not there.”

Mrs. Bellarmino told the client she’d call back, and walked into the kitchen. Her daughter was wearing low-cut jeans and a sheer top that looked like something a hooker would wear to work. These days, even junior high girls dressed that way. She sighed.

“Look above the oven, Jen.”

“I told you. I did.”

“Look again.”

“Mom, will you just get it for me? I’m late.”

Mrs. Bellarmino stood firm. “Above the oven.”

Jennifer reached up, opening the doors, stretching for the cereal box, which was right there, of course. But Mrs. Bellarmino was not looking at the box. She was looking at her daughter’s exposed stomach.

“Jen…you have those bruises again.”

Her daughter brought the box down, tugged at her top, covering her belly. “It’s nothing.”

“You had them the other day, too.”

“Mom, I’m late.” She was walking to the table, sitting down.

“Jennifer.Show me. ”

With an exasperated sigh, her daughter stood and lifted her top, exposing her abdomen. Mrs. Bellarmino saw an inch-long horizontal bruise just above the bikini line. And another one, fainter, on the other side of the belly.

“It’s nothing, Mom. I just keep banging into the edge of the desk.”

“But you shouldn’t bruise…”

“It’s nothing.”

“Are you taking your vitamins?”

“Mom? Can I please just eat?”

“You know you can tell me anything, you know that-”

“Mom, you’re making me late for school! I have a French test!”

There was no point in pushing her now. In any case, the phone had started ringing-no doubt the New York client telephoning back. Clients were impatient. They expected realtors to be available every minute of the day. She went into the other room to take the call and opened her documents to review the numbers.

Five minutes later, her daughter yelled, “Bye, Mom!” and Georgia heard the front door slam.

It left her distinctly uneasy.

She just had afeeling. She dialed her husband’s lab in Bethesda. For once Rob was not in meetings, and she was put right through. She told him the story.

“What do you think we should do?” she asked.

“Search her room,” he said promptly. “We have an obligation.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll call the office and tell them I’ll be late.”

“I’m flying later,” he said, “but let me know.”