On Wednesday, she texted instead.
Thursday, she didn’t send any photographs at all.
That evening, Ethan checked his phone repeatedly.
“She hasn’t posted anything.”
“Your mother is not a missing person because she skipped Instagram for twenty-four hours.”
“She always sends something.”
“Call her.”
“I already did.”
Of course he had.
“She said she was tired.”
“Then maybe she’s tired.”
He looked unconvinced.
We went to bed around eleven.
Two hours later, Diane called me.
“I need you to come get me.”
Those words echoed in my head as I stood barefoot in the hallway.
I lowered my voice.
“Diane, I need you to tell me whether you’re safe.”
“I am.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what changed.”
She breathed in slowly.
“Everything started feeling too serious.”
“What does that mean?”
“The first night here was wonderful.”
She told me Malcolm had cooked dinner.
