Searching for Rose. Dana Becker

allowing denial to set in, was reckless. Her new sobriety gave her these moments of clarity, and so she grew to despise her sobriety. But as long as she was sober, her brain could do the math. Every day and week that passed, every minute really, meant worse odds of finding Rose. Time was not on her side. But just as quickly as April had these thoughts, she let them go. There were professional detectives on the case. What could she really do anyway? How did endlessly worrying really help?

      When April returned from her walk, Reading Market was mostly quiet. She walked past the Amish diner and, in her peripheral vision, she noticed Joseph at the register. She saw that he was looking at her, but she ignored him and walked on. Without a word, she arrived back in the bakery, slipped into her apron and rubber gloves, grabbed her trusty dough scraper, and picked up where she’d left off: cutting sharp triangles out of a giant slab of raspberry-dotted dough, shaping and smoothing them with the side of the dough scraper, weighing the triangles to ensure uniformity of size (1.5 ounces each), and setting each on a tray, ready to be baked into tomorrow’s scones. When she got going, it felt like a comforting and increasingly familiar rhythm, and she could work placidly like that for hours.

      * * *

      Whitey sat at his desk, looking at his dead cell phone. He’d mostly stopped picking up the phone. He would give it some use every day, for a few minutes, so as not to raise any suspicions, not tip off anyone who might be listening. But in reality, he now kept the phone only for emergencies. Ever since he’d had that little scare: when he began to suspect that he might have an enemy inside the FBI, in addition to the well-placed friends he’d cultivated.