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was. “I’m not here. You know what to do. Bye-bye.”
    “Where the hell are you? I’ve sent a million texts,” Sandy said, trying to sound more worried than pissed off. “I need to talk to you. It’s kind of— No, it is . It’s an emergency. Call me back as soon as you can. Okay, Mom?”
    The word “mom” felt swollen in Sandy’s mouth and made of something hard. Her lips had to stretch to fit around it. It had been so long since she’d called Jenna that, longer still since it had meant anything. It was a shot in the dark, a grab at something totally out of reach. But there had to be a chance it would land. That it would settle inside Jenna and wake up some long-dead thing. That it would make her pick up the goddamn phone.
    But what if it didn’t? Sandy shook her head, tried to push away the thought. In her world, what-ifs were never fucking helpful. She had to focus. She had to get her stash of money and get the hell out of there and try to find Jenna. That was the only option. Because as much as she might like to pretend she’d leave town without her, Sandy couldn’t. She’d never leave Jenna behind.
    Sandy knelt on the couch and reached around the back, sliding her hand into the gap where she kept the thin box. She stretched farther when she didn’t feel it. Her heart sped up as she kept rooting around. It had been a few days since she’d checked, but it had to be back there. Where else would it be?
    Finally, Sandy’s nails scratched against the cardboard. The box had gotten wedged farther away, that was all. But as soon as she yanked it out and reached in she could tell something was wrong. The envelope inside was too thin. Sandy’s hands were trembling as she pulled out a short stack of one-dollar bills. She fanned them out: twenty-six in all.
    Nine hundred and seventy-four dollars less than there was supposed to be.

MOLLY
    MARCH 5, 2013
    ----
    Dr. Zomer. Sounds like a cross between a serial killer and an antidepressant. I’m glad she waited to bring up journaling, because I was barely on board with therapy to begin with. But that’s not because of her. I like Dr. Zomer, with her huge brown eyes and warm, wrinkly face. She’s nice and I can tell she wants to help.
    But wait. I’m not supposed to be writing about Dr. Zomer in here. I’m supposed to be writing about me.
    I think it makes Justin happy that I’m seeing Dr. Zomer. Just this morning he said that I seem more like myself. But sometimes I wonder if that person exists anymore.
    Look, now I’m writing about Justin. Me. Me. Me.
    Oh yeah, I didn’t cry today! I never let myself cry in front of Ella—wait, that’s such a lie. Why am I bothering to lie HERE? No one’s going to read this.
    For WEEKS after I lost the baby, I cried my face off right in front of Ella. Cried so much, I’m surprised she didn’t wash away in a river of my selfish tears. But after Justin went back to work, I did keep my crying contained to when Ella was in day care, from nine to five. And then today, not a single tear.
    Until right now. Because now I’m getting teary because I feel guilty that I didn’t cry. God, sometimes I really do hate myself.
    Well, look at that, Dr. Zomer. A whole page filled that you’ll never read—no one will, so I don’t understand the point. But it’s filled all the same. Because that’s what you asked me to do. And I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying as hard as I can.

Molly
    After fifteen minutes of erratic driving and careful square breathing, I reached the outskirts of Ridgedale and the lovely stretch of shops that included the Ridgedale Reader offices. The parking lot was nearly empty as I pulled in, the stores—the Knit Wit knitting shop, Ridgedale Antiques, and the Peter Naftali Gallery—starting to open for the day. I was parking when my phone buzzed with a text.
    Tell me you have purple sweatpants? It was Stella. Her son Will was a plum in The Very Hungry Caterpillar .
    Shit. Ella’s leaf-green