I could see Lauren come back, too casual, sliding the dark velvet case down past the scarf in her bag as if she had done it a hundred times before.
My hand started to shake.
I locked the phone and set it face down on the nightstand, then picked it up again.
The clock said 11:47 p.m.
My husband’s flight from Denver had landed at ten.
He had texted *landed, call you in the morning*.
I called anyway.
He answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep and airport noise still clinging to him.
“Hey? You home? How was Emma?”
I didn’t answer right away.
I watched Emma’s chest rise and fall and tried to keep my voice even so it wouldn’t wake her.
“Can you come to the lake hotel? The one on Michigan. Room 714. Don’t go home first.”
A pause.
“Sarah? What’s wrong?”
“Emma’s hair is gone,” I said.
He was quiet for a beat too long.
“What do you mean gone?”
“They cut it. Margaret and Lauren. They left her on the balcony in her pajamas because they said she stole Margaret’s bracelet. She didn’t. I have it on video. Lauren took it.”
I heard him inhale, sharp, as if someone had hit him.
“Don’t call them,” I whispered. “Just come here. Please.”
He said, “I’m coming,” and the line went dead.
He knocked twenty-three minutes later, not with the soft hotel knock but with the flat of his hand, once, hard.
I opened the door before the sound had faded.
Daniel stood in the hallway in his winter coat, his carry-on still over his shoulder, his hair messed from the wind off the lake.
His eyes went straight past me to the bed.
Emma was asleep on her side, her rabbit tucked under her chin, the hotel lamp throwing a warm yellow circle over her.
The uneven tufts of her hair stuck up in places where the scissors had caught.
Daniel’s bag slid off his shoulder and hit the carpet with a dull thud.
He didn’t take off his coat.
He walked to the bed and knelt, both knees down, at her level.
