The screaming never stopped. Never. Max pressed his hands over his ears as hard as he could as he sat on the edge of the bed. It only muffled the sound a little, the ear-piercing screams from his terrified mother and the low guttural yells from his brother only seeming slightly farther away, punctuated by intermittent growls and shouts from their father.

One of the youngest officers to be promoted to the detective unit, the police brass had quickly learned two things about Max when he’d finished the Academy. Number one, he was a quick study, wickedly smart with a nearly photographic memory. Number two, he was better off not dealing with people. Managing people’s emotions, not to mention his own, wasn't exactly his strong suit.

Grady had once read that people who were in physical pain had terrible personal skills, the condition of their physical body causing them to lose any semblance of nicety or manners.

“My wife, she hasn’t been home in a while. This morning, I got a call, and it seems that instead of her just being gone, she’s been kidnapped.”“And what makes you think that?” Grady said, narrowing his eyes. Noah pushed the box he’d been carrying toward Grady. “Take a look inside.”

“I hate it when people call me Max,” Grady grunted. “That is your name.”“No, that was my father’s name,” Grady said firmly.

Eventually, somehow things would end — either they would let her go, she would escape, someone would rescue her or, she’d die in the process. There weren’t that many options.

Somehow, the way Cassie said things always sounded more pleasant, like it was the Disney version of whatever Grady was saying.

“Don’t worry about it. Just take a breath and try to tell me what happened.” It actually wasn’t all right. Having the recording would have made everything easier. There was nothing about this case that was easy, though.

Macy shivered. There were many good things about being a professor of literature, but one of the bad things was that she knew her imagination could run wild after living in the world of fiction for so long.

Getting knocked up my senior year of college was never part of my plan, but life rarely cares about such things as plans.

I briefly considered what I’d said earlier about networking. Dancing with a person in a bear suit might not be the best way to gain clients. Then again, when did I ever let what other people thought stop me?

In my family, you saved moments of despondency for closets, bathrooms, or solo car rides. Public weeping or gnashing of teeth, even with only one witness, was harshly frowned upon.

I arranged a pillow behind my back and settled in to give her the mom once-over. Were there dark circles under her eyes? Enough meat on her bones? Was she clenching her jaw like she did when she was stressed out? Fortunately, my mom radar told me that she seemed all right. You tend to know a person after living with them for eighteen years. That was one reason I hated living apart from her—I couldn’t do my daily Zoe check-in. Sure, I could call or text with her, but that wasn’t the same as laying my eyes on my baby girl.

Zoe grabbed a handful of the kettle corn from one of the bowls I’d set out on the table as hors d’oeuvres, along with chocolate-covered peanuts and Swedish fish. Don’t let anyone say I’m not classy.

I found my daughter’s sexuality fascinating. At seventeen she explained to me that she was open to dating anyone, that it was the individual not their gender that attracted her. As someone who had her first crush on a boy in kindergarten and never deviated from that path, I couldn’t totally understand what it felt like to be Zoe, but I was happy for her. She knew who she was and didn’t seem to have many hang-ups about it. I liked to think my parenting had some small part in her self-confidence, but in truth she came out of the womb knowing her own mind.

That’s the thing about motherhood. Everyone talks about the challenges of babies who won’t sleep and salty teenagers who rebel, but they never tell you that the hardest part is letting them go.

He was like a bad pair of underwear. Even when I couldn’t see him, he still chafed.

“I understand completely. But a little fear is what keeps us feeling young and alive. When you stop taking chances, you stop living, right?”

We began to move, swaying back and forth, and I could tell she’d become distracted. So had I. Having my hands on her body was leading to thoughts that weren’t helpful in dance class. It was like I was back in middle school in my first slow dance with a girl, hoping I didn’t get a woody from sheer proximity to a female.

It was as if my libido had been hibernating and now remembered its purpose in life.

Bridget glared at both of us. “I was trying to attract the right men.” She swiped through her phone to open the dating app. “But you might be right. The last person to contact me said he ran my profile by his spiritual guru, and that’s how he knew we’d be a great match.”

“I’m serious. It’s not too late. And beware of STDs. I hear those are running rampant through the senior community.”“I’m not a senior, you little smartass! You just told me I’m still young.”“You’re never too young or old for chlamydia.”

“Being helpful, my mother taught me, is doing what someone else needs you to do. Not doing what you want to do.