“Where’s Adam, Mommy?”

“We don’t know, honey.”

“I called his cell,” Jill said. “He didn’t answer.”

“I know. We’re trying to find him.”

She looked at her daughter’s face. So adult. The second kid grows up so much differently from the first. You so overprotect your first. You watch his every step. You think his every breath is somehow God’s divine plan. The earth, moon, stars, sun-they all revolve around a firstborn.

Tia thought about secrets, about inner thoughts and fears, and how she’d been trying to find her son’s. She wondered if this disappearance confirmed that she’d been right to do it or wrong. We all have our problems, she knew. Tia had anxiety issues. She religiously made the kids wear headgear when playing any sort of sport- eyewear too when it was called for. She stayed at the bus stop until they got in, even now, even when Adam was far too old for such treatment and would never stand it, so she hid and watched. She didn’t like them crossing busy streets or heading to the center of town on their bikes. She didn’t like carpooling because that other mother might not be as careful a driver. She listened to every story about every child tragedy-every car accident, every pool drowning, every abduction, every plane crash, anything. She listened and then she came home and looked it up online and read every article on it and while Mike would sigh and try to calm her down by talking about the long-shot odds, prove to her that her anxiety was unfounded, it would do no good.

Long odds still happened to someone. And now it was happening to her.

Had these been anxiety issues-or had Tia been right all along?

Once again Tia’s cell jangled and once again she grabbed it fast, hoping with everything she had that it was Adam. It wasn’t. The number was blocked.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Baye? This is Detective Schlich.”

The tall woman cop from the hospital. The fear struck yet again. You think that you can’t keep feeling fresh waves, but the stabs never make you numb. “Yes?”

“Your son’s phone was found in a trash can not far from where your husband got jumped.”

“So he was there?”

“Well, yes, we assumed that already.”

“And someone must have stolen his phone.”

“That’s another question. The most likely reason for tossing the phone was that someone-probably your son-saw your husband there and realized how he’d been tracked down.”

“But you don’t know that.”

“No, Mrs. Baye, I don’t know that.”

“Will this development make you take the case more seriously?”

“We were always taking it seriously,” Schlich said.

“You know what I meant.”

“I do. Look, we call this street Vampire Row because there is no one here during the day. No one. So tonight, when the clubs and bars open again, yes, we will go out and ask questions.”

Hours yet. Nightfall.

“If anything else develops, I will let you know.”

“Thank you.”

Tia was hanging up the phone when she saw the car pull into her driveway. She moved toward the window and watched as Betsy Hill, Spencer’s mother, stepped out of the vehicle and started toward her door.

ILENE Goldfarb woke up early in the morning and flicked on the coffee maker. She slipped into her robe and slippers and padded down her driveway to grab the paper. Her husband, Herschel, was still in bed. Her son, Hal, had been out late last night, as befits a teenager in his last year of high school. Hal had already been accepted at Princeton, her alma mater. He had worked hard to get there. Now he blew off steam, and she was fine with that.

The morning sun warmed the kitchen. Ilene sat in her favorite chair and curled her legs under her. She pushed away the medical journals. There were a lot of them. Not only was she a renowned transplant surgeon but her husband was considered the top cardiac man in northern New Jersey, practicing out of Valley Hospital in Ridgewood.

Ilene sipped the coffee. She read the paper. She thought about the simple pleasures of life and how rarely she indulged them. She thought about Herschel, upstairs, how handsome he was when they met in medical school, how they had survived the insane hours and rigors of medical school, of internship, of residency, of surgical fellowships, of work. She thought about her feelings for him, how they had mellowed over the years into something she found comforting, how Herschel had recently sat her down and suggested a “trial separation” now that Hal was about to leave the nest.

“What’s left?” Herschel had asked her, spreading his hands. “When you really think about us as a couple, what’s left, Ilene?”

Sitting alone in the kitchen, scant feet from where her husband of twenty-four years had asked that question, she could still hear his words echo.

Ilene had pushed herself and worked so hard, gone for it all, and she had gotten it: the incredible career, the wonderful family, the big house, respect of peers and friends. Now her husband wondered what was left. What indeed. The mellow had been such a slow slide, so gradual, that she had never really seen it. Or cared to see it. Or wanted more. Who the hell knew?

She looked toward the stairs. She was tempted to go back up right this very moment and crawl into bed with Herschel and make love to him for hours, like they used to too many years ago, boink those “what’s left” doubts right out of his head. But she couldn’t make herself get up. She just couldn’t. So she read the paper and sipped her coffee and wiped her eyes.

“Hey, Mom.”

Hal opened the refrigerator and drank straight from the container of orange juice. There was a time she’d correct him on this-she’d tried for years-but really, Hal was the only one who drank orange juice and too many hours get wasted on stuff like that. He was going off to college now. Their time together was running out. Why fill it with nonsense like that?

“Hey, sweetheart. Out late?”

He drank some more, shrugged. He wore shorts and a gray T-shirt. There was a basketball cropped under his arm.

“Are you playing at the high school gym?” she asked.

“No, Heritage.” Then he took one more swig and said to her, “You okay?”

“Me? Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your eyes look red.”

“I’m fine.”

“And I saw those guys come by.”

He meant the FBI agents. They had come and asked questions about her practice, about Mike, about stuff that simply made no sense to her. Normally she would have talked to Herschel about it, but he seemed more concerned with preparing for the rest of his life without her.

“I thought you’d gone out,” she said.

“I stopped to pick up Ricky and doubled back down the street. They looked like cops or something.”

Ilene Goldfarb said nothing.

“Were they?”

“It’s not important. Don’t worry about it.”

He let it go, bounced the ball and himself out the door. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. She glanced at the clock. Eight A.M. At this hour it had to be the service, though she wasn’t on call. The operators often made mistakes and routed the messages to the wrong doctor.

She checked the caller ID and saw the name LORIMAN.

Ilene picked up and said hello.

“It’s Susan Loriman,” the voice said.

“Yes, good morning.”

“I don’t want to talk to Mike about this”-Susan Loriman stopped as if searching for the right word-“this situation. About finding Lucas a donor.”

“I understand,” she said. “I have office hours on Tuesday, if you want-”

“Could you meet me today?”

Ilene was about to protest. The last thing right now she wanted to do was protect or even help a woman who had gotten herself into this kind of trouble. But this wasn’t about Susan Loriman, she reminded herself. It was about her son and Ilene’s patient, Lucas.

“I guess so, yes.”