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Stella.
    â€œJen? Is everything okay?”
    The line goes dead.
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    â€œWant extra celery, too?” Matt asks, poking his head back into the family room, cordless phone in hand.
    Kathleen nods. “And extra blue cheese, too.”
    â€œI know. You told me.”
    â€œDid I tell you to get mild this time? The mediums were too hot.”
    â€œNo, but I will. Anything else I can do for you, your highness?”
    Kathleen grins. “I’m sure I can think of something.”
    He raises a suggestive eyebrow. “Really?”
    â€œReally. Don’t look so surprised.”
    â€œWell, it’s been a long time.”
    â€œSomething tells me we’re not talking about wings anymore,” she says with a laugh.
    â€œPretty sharp there, aren’t you?”
    â€œOh, I try.”
    Yes, and she also tries not to fall into bed too exhausted for anything but sleep every night. Not that he seems to mind that their once torrid love life has cooled to an occasional, fleeting fifteen minutes in each other’s arms. It’s not as though he’s pulling out all stops to seduce her, either.
    We’re becoming middle aged and boring , she frequently wants to tell him. But if she acknowledges it, she—or he—will probably feel compelled to do something about it. And frankly, most of the time she’s just too tired to care.
    Footsteps pound overhead. “Mommy!” Riley bellows from the upstairs hallway. “He shoved me in the closet again.”
    Kathleen eyes Matt. “How about if I call for the wings and you handle that?”
    â€œToo late. I already dialed.” He holds up the phone, retreating toward the kitchen.
    â€œLiar. You don’t even know the number off the top of your head.” She sticks out her tongue at him.
    There’s a thud overhead, followed by another shrieked “Mommy!”
    â€œI’m coming.” She starts up the stairs with a sigh, stepping around the heaping basket of folded laundry at the bottom. She’ll put it away later; she’s had it with housework today.
    She’s halfway to the second floor when the phone rings.
    Kathleen rolls her eyes and grins, muttering, “I knew you were a liar . . .”
    â€œMom!” Curran is grunting from somewhere above. “Get him off of me!”
    Moments later, she’s on her knees prying her scuffling sons apart when she hears Matt’s hurried footsteps and keys jangling below. He calls something up to her, his voice sounding oddly urgent.
    â€œShh!” Kathleen admonishes the boys. “Matt! I didn’t hear you. What?”
    Too late. Downstairs, the front door slams.
    Kathleen’s heart begins to pound. “Curran—Riley—did either of you hear Daddy?”
    Her youngest shakes his head, still intent on poking his brother.
    Squirming, Curran says, “Cut it out, Riley!” then, to her, “I think he said something about Jen.”
    Kathleen leaves the boys and hurries to the window in the front bedroom, just in time to see her husband take off down the street. Where on earth would Matt be going on foot?
    The Gattinskis’ house on the next block.
    That was Jen on the phone.
    Something is wrong over there.
    Each piece of the puzzle seems to fall into place with a heavy thud, stirring billows of worry within. Her eyes fastened to her husband’s retreating figure out the window, Kathleen attempts to quell the uneasiness.
    Maybe the toilet is overflowing, or . . . or . . .
    Maybe Jen can’t get a jar of peanut butter open, or—
    Matt is running now. Sprinting, as if his life—or God help her, Jen’s—depends on it.
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    The trouble with events like this, Maeve decides, sipping her pleasantly chilled Pinot Grigio, is that she’s bound to run into Gregory. As a prominent local dentist, her ex is always invited to these Chamber of Commerce affairs.
    In the old days, Maeve reluctantly