I shake off the chills and return to the moment at hand.

The boy in the sailor suit has returned.

“So who’s going to write the article?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

Dennis is so pale that his emotions are broadcast in neon. My question has delighted him. “I don’t suppose you want it?”

I jump out of my seat and hug him. I can hold my own wrists behind his slender back. “Thank you thank you thank you! When do I get to interview Paulie?”

Dennis waits until I release him to speak, his face scarlet. The Lilydale men must not get hugged nearly as much as the women. “Apparently, our Paulie is a hippie now. He runs on his own time clock and will ‘let us know’ when he’s ready for an interview.”

I nod, biting my bottom lip in concentration. “Don’t suppose you know who the kindergarten teacher that day was.”

“Yes, and I’m certain you’ve met her. Becky Swanson. She’s the secretary at your father-in-law’s insurance agency.”

Blonde Becky, beautiful as a butterfly, she’d fall to the earth if she stopped smiling.

Something about that thought drops a bullet of unease into the chamber, followed by another slug, slick and scary. I glance back at the article to confirm it.

Paulie Aandeg disappeared on September 5.

September 5 is my due date.

The effort of reaching the bathroom costs me. I’m drenched in sweat, blood dripping down my thighs, my breasts vast, painful boulders. There are no identifying items in here, no names on prescriptions, no familiar shampoo. Only a bathtub, a sink, and a toilet. I use the sink to pull myself up, turn the faucet on, and gulp greedily at the cold water, drinking until my stomach threatens to revolt.

I splash icy water on my face. It brings a moment of clarity.

The faces, watching greedily as my baby came out, staring between my bloody legs as if I were a prize horse delivering their foal. I’d been drugged—a shot? two?—but the pain drew me out until the shot pulled me under, back and forth, drew me out, pulled me under, and whose faces were they? I see only grinning mouths.

But it doesn’t matter.

I am Joan Harken. I am a reporter. My baby is gone.

I slide to the floor and lean against the sink pedestal. The water gurgles in my belly. The floor tile is blessedly cool. I want to lie on it, salve my feverish bones, but there isn’t time. I must find my baby.

But my consciousness is being packed up and put away and I’m falling, down, down . . .

CHAPTER 18

Dennis gives me explicit instructions to sit tight on the article. It’s the weekend, so Mrs. Swanson will be with her family. Better to interview her at work on her lunch break so as not to upset anyone. She hasn’t done anything wrong, Dennis assures me, but it can’t be a pleasant memory for her. Weekends are Chief Bauer’s busy time, so a Monday would work better for him, as well. As for Paulie, we’re at his whim as to when he wants to meet.

I nod and agree to it, all the while thinking that surely there’s no harm in laying some groundwork. Dennis didn’t want to reveal where Paulie’s staying, but as far as I know there’s only one motel in town, and it’s the Purple Saucer. Deck and I drove past it our first day here. It’s a ten-minute walk from the newspaper, and the spring day is as pretty as a peach.

When I reach the motel, I count eleven units, but the crowning glory is a large purple spaceship constructed on the roof as if it’s landed there. It’s straight out of Earth vs. the Flying Saucers, one of my mom’s favorite movies. There’s a thrill in seeing it resting up there, quirky and grand. The closer I get, I see the flying saucer is made out of plywood painted purple and shiny sheet metal, but I still like it.

Of the eleven units, only three have cars parked in front, and all of those have Minnesota license plates. Would Paulie have been living in his home state all these years? I make my way to the glass-enclosed room marked OFFICE, the lip of the flying saucer shading it. There’s a man behind the counter, and he looks up with a smile when I enter.

“What can I do you for, ma’am?”

I planned for this on the walk over. “Hello”—I look at his nameplate—“Mr. Scholl. My name is Joan Harken.”

Do his eyes grow shadowed behind his round glasses? If so, he quickly recovers. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you. I’m a new reporter at the Gazette, and Dennis Roth has assigned me the story of Paulie Aandeg’s return. You’ve heard the news?”

He can’t blanket his expression quickly enough this time. He knows Paulie’s in town, which means he’s either friends with Chief Bauer or Paulie is staying here. I sit on my exultation, which isn’t easy.

“There’s been word,” he says cautiously.

My grin widens. “Wonderful. I’m here to interview Mr. Aandeg.”

He removes his glasses and cleans them with a blue handkerchief he produces from his back pocket. When he pops his glasses back on his nose, his eyes are very focused.

“Dennis sent you, you said?”

“He assigned me the story.” I keep my smile bland. Mr. Scholl can make of that what he will.

He studies me for another beat. “Well, I’m afraid Mr. Aandeg left early this morning.”

Disappointment flattens my mood. I’ve been excited to meet him. “Checked out?”

“No. Cleaning lady says his things are still there. He could be looking for work.”

Aha! “Thank you, Mr. Scholl. You’ve been very helpful.”

“My pleasure.”

“Have a nice day,” I tell him, turning toward the door. I’ve already made up my mind to come back tomorrow, am already spinning the questions I’ll ask him. Poor Puzzling Paulie, a mystery of a man. Mr. Scholl’s comment stops me dead in my shoes.

“You want me to tell him you’ve dropped by, Mrs. Schmidt?”

My hand rests on the cool door handle. The patch of warm sunshine is just outside, beyond the black shade of the flying saucer, and I suddenly, desperately want to feel it on my skin. “Harken,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

I start to turn, to face him, but don’t think I can stand it if he’s smiling.

“Nothing,” I call over my shoulder. “No need to tell him a thing. I’ll stop back.”

CHAPTER 19

Sunday morning dawns sticky, the air slow and sullen.

“Weatherman says it’s going to be a hot one,” Deck murmurs in my ear, his voice drowsy. I’m surprised he’s holding me, but then the pressure against my lower back tells me why. I turn and kiss him, not open-mouthed because we’ve just woken up, but still inviting.

Morning lovemaking is my preference. My mind isn’t alert yet, so it’s easy. Deck props himself up just above me, out of deference to the baby. If I glanced down, I could see the pouch, a swelling where before there was only flat, but I don’t look. I grip tight to Deck and follow him into that place where there’s no color or sound, just the two of us rocking each other.

He rolls off before I’ve climaxed. Ursula says it’s like that sometimes. I’ve had to take her word for it because Deck’s only the second man I’ve been with. I told him he was the first. Hearing it made him happy.