“Oh, Kevin.” Cheryl sighs. “Not here. Not tonight. Will you put your phone away for once?”

“—a ‘person of interest.’” Dad looks up, blinking, like a person emerging from sleep. “I wonder what that’s about.”

“I’m sure the Blotter will tell us,” Cheryl says, swiping the corner of her eye with one perfectly French-manicured fingernail. “He’s been obsessed,” she says to me.

“Yeah. Mom too.” I don’t know why, but I get pleasure out of talking about Mom in front of Cheryl. “It’s, like, the only thing she can talk about.”

Cheryl just shakes her head.

I turn to Dad, struck by an idea. I’m still thinking of what Sarah Snow said: You look familiar. “Did the Snows ever live in Somerville?”

He frowns and returns to his phone. “Not that I know of.”

So that’s a dead end. Cheryl, who can’t stand to keep her mouth shut for more than .5 seconds, jumps in. “It’s terrible, just terrible. My friend Louise won’t even let the twins out on their own anymore. Just in case there’s a”—she lowers her voice—“pervert on the loose.”

“I just feel so sorry for her parents,” Dad says. “To keep on hoping . . . to not know . . .”

“You think it’s better to know?” I say. Once again, Dad looks at me. His eyes are red, bloodshot, and I wonder whether he’s already drunk. He doesn’t answer.

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Cheryl says, as once again waiters appear, this time bearing thimble-size portions of spaghetti on vast white plates. Cheryl claps her hands together, and a massive ruby sparkles on one of her fingers. “Mmm. This looks delicious, doesn’t it? Spaghetti with garlic scapes and fresh ramps. I absolutely love ramps. Don’t you?”

After dinner, Dad drops Cheryl off first, a sure sign he wants to talk to me—which is funny, both because he was almost entirely silent at dinner, and because I’m 90 percent positive he’ll drive straight back to Egremont when he’s done dropping me off. I wonder what it’s like to sleep in the bed of Cheryl’s dead ex-husband, and I have a sadistic urge to ask. He white-knuckles the wheel as he drives, leaning forward slightly, and I wonder whether it’s because he’s tipsy or so he doesn’t have to look at me.

Still, he doesn’t speak until he’s pulled up in front of the house. As usual, only a few lights are burning: Nick’s, and the one in the upstairs bathroom. He jerks the car into park and clears his throat.

“How’s your mother holding up?” he asks abruptly, which wasn’t what I expected him to say at all.

“Fine,” I say, which is only half a lie. At least she goes to work on time now. Most days.

“That’s good. I worry about her. I worry about you, too.” He’s still gripping the steering wheel, like if he lets go, he might go flying off into outer space. He clears his throat again. “We should talk about the twenty-ninth.”

It’s so typical that he refers to my birthday by the date, as if it’s a dental appointment he has to keep. Dad is an actuary, which means he studies insurance and risk. Sometimes he looks at me like I’m a bad return he’s made on an investment.

“What about it?” I say. If he’s going to pretend it’s no big deal, so will I.

He gives me a funny look. “Your mother and I—” His voice hitches. “Well, we were thinking we should all get together. Maybe go to dinner at Sergei’s.”

I can’t remember the last time Mom and Dad were in the same room. Not since a few days after the accident—and even then, they stayed on opposite sides of the minuscule hospital bedroom. “The four of us?”

“Well, Cheryl has to work,” he says apologetically, as if I would have invited her otherwise. Finally he releases his death grip on the wheel and turns toward me. “What do you think? Do you think that’s a good idea? We wanted to celebrate somehow.”

I’m tempted to say Hell no, but Dad isn’t actually waiting for an answer. He slides his fingers behind his glasses and scrubs his eyes. “God. Seventeen years old. I remember when—I remember when you were both babies, so small I was terrified to hold you. . . . I always thought I would crush you, or break you somehow. . . .” Dad’s voice is thick. He must be drunker than I thought.

“Sounds great, Dad,” I say quickly. “I think Sergei’s would be perfect.”

Thankfully he regains control. “You think?”

“Really. It’ll be . . . special.” I lean over to give him a peck on the cheek, extracting myself before he can wrap me in a bear hug. “Drive home safely, okay? There are cops everywhere.” It’s weird to have to parent your parents. Add it to the list of the two thousand other things that have gone to hell since the divorce, or maybe since the accident, or both.

“Right.” Dad seizes the steering wheel again, bobbing his head, obviously embarrassed by his outburst. “Looking for Madeline Snow.”

“Looking for Madeline Snow,” I echo, as I slide out of the car. I watch Dad reverse in the driveway and hold up a hand as he passes me again, waving to his dim silhouette in the window. I watch until his taillights turn to tiny, glowing red points, like lit cigarette tips. Once again, the street is quiet, silent except for the constant throaty humming of the crickets.

I think of Madeline Snow, somewhere lost in the darkness, while half the county searches for her.