Chapter 1

      On the last ordinary day of her life before her family went off for the weekend, Abby made a real breakfast—French toast with maple syrup and bacon. It was penance, the least she could do, given how utterly delighted she was at the prospect of being left on her own for two whole days to do as she pleased. It would sicken her later, in the aftermath of what happened, that she could so covet the prospect of solitude, but in that last handful of ordinary hours, she was full of herself, her silly plans. She set a small mixing bowl on the counter, found the wire whisk, and when Nick came in the backdoor, she brandished it, smiling at him.

      He frowned. “What are you doing?”

      “Cooking breakfast, French toast.”

      “We don’t have time. We’re going to hit rush-hour traffic as it is.”

      “It’ll be fine,” Abby soothed.

      He came to the sink still wearing the wisp of bloodstained tissue he’d stuck below his ear where he’d cut himself shaving and the rumpled cargo shorts he’d pulled out of the hamper as if he didn’t have a drawer full of clean ones. As if the unwashed pair were the only ones that suited him.

      Abby got out a frying pan, aware of his mood, regretful of it. She wished he hadn’t bothered with shaving. She wished she’d done the laundry yesterday. Leaving the breakfast makings, she went to him, circled his waist from behind, laid her cheek against his back. “I’m sorry about your shorts.” The words were right there, but they caught in her throat when she felt him go still.

      “Don’t,” he said, and she backed away. She returned to the stove, absorbing herself in the task of separating the strips of bacon and arranging them with care in the bottom of the pan. As if her care made a difference, as if it could keep her family safe when it couldn’t. She ought to have known that much at least. She went to the refrigerator and took out the carton of eggs.

      Nick washed his hands.

      “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” she said when he shut off the water.

      “Why do you always think something’s wrong, Abby?”

      “I don’t.”

      “You do.”

      “Fine,” she said. She would not stand here squabbling as if they were their children.

      He hung the kitchen towel over the oven door handle, gave her one of those side-of-the-mouth kisses. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Nothing’s wrong. I just want to get on the road.”

      Abby’s jaw tightened. She knew better.

      “Wouldn’t cereal be easier?” he asked.

      She broke the eggs into the bowl. “I’d like us to sit down to breakfast together for once.”

      “What about the mess? You do realize we can’t stay to help you clean up.”

      “I don’t mind.”

      He went to the foot of the stairs and shouted, “Lindsey? What’s taking you so long? I could use some help loading the camping gear.”

      “Down in a minute, Dad,” she shouted back. “I had to get ready in Jake’s bathroom because the shower in mine is