Since I was already driving faster than any rational human being should drive in three inches of wet, sloppy snow, I didn’t answer. For years I’d driven like . . . well, like a mother carrying precious cargo. I hadn’t pushed the edge of my driving capabilities in over a decade. Lucky for Rosie, I’d learned to drive in an area of Michigan that got a hundred and fifty inches of snow a year. Some things you never forget.

At least I hoped so.

We were headed west on Highway 30, chunking over the rows of slush kicked up by passing cars and large blocks of snow dropping off fenders.

Stay on target. Stay on target. . . .

The car began sliding right, starting to turn, starting to spin out of control, and Rosie’s hands shot out and latched on to the dashboard. “Beth! Watch out! Beth! Beth!”

“Got it,” I said calmly. Or as calmly as I could. My right foot had come off the accelerator when the car started slipping. I desperately wanted to whip the wheel left, but knew I couldn’t. “Turn into the direction of the skid,” my father’s voice said. “Don’t fight the slide—work with it.”

The car slowed, I turned slightly right, hoped my seat belt was on tight, prayed that the air bags wouldn’t injure us too much, wondered if I’d paid the car insurance bill, and, above all, wished I was home in bed.

We slid for a year and a day, through a white blurry world, through a soundless universe, and just before the car went into the ditch, I felt control come back to my hands. I eased the wheel left and there we were, driving along in the right lane as if nothing had happened.

“Just like riding a bike.” I swallowed down the bitter taste of fear.

“What’s that?” Rosie asked. “This is taking too long.” She pounded the dash. “Can you go any faster?”

I risked a glance at my passenger. Nothing but large eyes, white showing all around. “Why don’t you call 911?” I asked. “Maybe we can get some police help.”

“Right.” She rustled around in the purse she’d grabbed as we’d run out her front door.

She was still explaining the situation to the dispatcher when we drove into the Dane County Regional Airport. “We’re at the airport right now,” she said. “He said they were going to Denver first. What airline? Um . . .” She pressed the tips of her fingers into her forehead. “Um . . . United? Pretty sure it’s United. Departure time?” She gave me a wild look. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember!”

Panic was starting to grab hold of her, which would do none of us any good. I risked taking a hand off the wheel and gave her arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Okay,” she was saying. “I’m taking a deep breath. Okay. Yeah, I’m okay. Eric left late because I was sick”—her eyes narrowed to the thinnest of slits—“and in this snow it might have taken twice as long to get here, so they could be flying out any minute. How long before someone can get here?” She paused, listening, and any semblance of calm vanished. “You want me to what?” She thumbed off the phone and threw it into her purse.

“Um . . .” Hanging up on a 911 call couldn’t be a good idea.

“I know,” Rosie said, “I shouldn’t have done that. But she was telling me to stay outside. To wait for the police to arrive!”

Either the dispatcher didn’t have children or she was just doing what her job told her to do. No mother worth the name would willingly stand idle while her children were in danger. It was a physical impossibility and cruel to even ask.

Just shy of the second entrance to the terminal, the closest entrance to the United ticketing desk, I started braking into a sloppy stop. Even before the car stopped moving forward, Rosie and I had opened our doors and were out in the cold, running as fast as we could.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” a skycap said, “but you can’t leave your vehicle there. Ma’am? Ma’am!”

Rosie and I rushed into the building, brushing the edges of our shoulders on the too-slow automatic doors. Inside, we came to an instant stop. All was bedlam. Children screeching, adults scolding, teenagers sulking, airport personnel looking harried and worn. It was Thanksgiving week, and the mass movement of Americans had begun.

Rosie ran forward, stopped, took two fast paces, and stopped again. “We’re never going to find them,” she said, looking left and right and up the escalator. “It’s too late. They’re gone. I’ll never get them back.”

Her words, full of despair and hopelessness, spurred me to action. I stepped in front of her and grabbed her shoulders. Looking straight into her eyes, I said, “You’re their mother. They need you. They will always need you. Are you going to give up this easily?”

She shook herself out of my grip. “Of course I’m not,” she snapped. “Come on.” Elbowing aside young and old alike, she bullied to the front of the line, ignoring all shouts and protests, and slapped her driver’s license on the counter. “I’m Rosie Stull. Are my daughters on one of your planes?”

“Ma’am?” The well-groomed woman smiled blandly.

Rosie leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “My soon-to-be-ex-husband has my daughters and I want them back. Amelia and Chelsea Stull.” She stabbed her license with her forefinger. “S-t-u-l-l. They’re traveling with a piece of pond scum named Eric who won’t be my husband much longer. He no longer has my permission to have the girls unattended. I want them back.”

“Oh, dear.” The woman’s fingers flew across her keyboard. “Oh, dear,” she said, frowning. “Mrs. Stull, I’d really like to help you, but there isn’t anyone named Stull flying with us today.”

“But there has to be!”

I tugged at Rosie’s elbow. “Did you ever see the tickets? Eric might not have been telling the truth about the airline.” Or the departure time or the destination, but I didn’t say any of that.

“The rat fink,” she said through gritted teeth, and allowed me to pull her away from the counter. “He kept the tickets in his briefcase. I never thought to look. Why didn’t I? Why?”

But there’d been no reason for her to, and now wasn’t the time for her to waste time beating herself with the imaginary hammer so many women carry around. “Time to split up,” I said. “You check with the other airlines, and I’ll go—”

“No,” she interrupted. “It’ll take too long.” And before I could argue with her, she was off. Weaving in and out of the mass of people snaking in lines through the light-filled space, she trotted back and forth, calling the names of her daughters. “Amelia? Chelsea? Amelia? Chelsea!”

As plans went, it was better than many. I rushed to catch up to her, and trailed in her wake, looking for tall men with dark blond hair. Which, unfortunately for us in an area settled by Germans, was two out of three men. And half of those were holding at least one child by the hand.

“Chelsea? Amelia!”

Heads turned, but none turned with the alacrity of a child hearing her mother’s voice. There was no answering call, and there was no retreat by a father figure.

“Amelia?”

Pieces of me were starting to break into tiny shards of sorrow. Maybe they were already gone. Maybe Eric was already in the air with the girls, winging southward, never to come home, never to see their mother, never to—

I shook my head. No. That wouldn’t happen. It. Would. Not.

“Chelsea?” Rosie’s voice was starting to go hoarse. “Amelia?”

There had to be a better way. There just had to be.

Suddenly I saw what it was. I grabbed Rosie’s sleeve and pushed through the crowd to an information counter. “Excuse me,” I said to a blue-jacketed woman. “My daughters have wandered off. Can you please make an announcement for Amelia and Chelsea to meet their mother at the baggage claim?”

Rosie clutched the edge of the counter. “Amelia and Chelsea Stull,” she said.

The woman looked at me and I nodded. She picked up a telephone receiver upside down and held the mouthpiece to her lips. “Would Amelia and Chelsea Stull please meet their mother at the baggage claim? Amelia and Chelsea Stull, meet your mother at the baggage claim.”

Rosie and I half ran, half trotted to a vantage point halfway between the conveyor belts and the escalator, heads turning, eyes searching, our senses at full alert, our hopes and fears wrapped up into this one instant.

Were they here? Were they gone? They must be here.

But what if they were gone?

For the briefest of seconds I imagined a day in which I’d be torn forever from Jenna and Oliver. It was the worst second of my life.

“Amelia?” Rosie called. “Chelsea?”

No replies. No answers. No daughters, no reunion. No joy.

Nothing but the black void of an empty life.

Nothing but nothing forever and ever and ever.

“Amelia?” Rosie’s voice was raspy and dry. She turned in a circle, looking, searching, crying. “Chelsea?”

I swallowed. Maybe security would let us through upstairs. But so much time had passed already. By the time we’d talked our way through the guards, the girls would be long, long gone.

“Amelia!” Rosie’s neck cords stood out. “Chelsea!” She called again and again and again until her voice could no longer be heard.

People walked past, their glances sliding toward us and away. What’s wrong with that poor woman? Someone should call security.

Tears stung my eyes. What do you do after you’ve already done everything you can do? “Rosie . . .” I put out a hand, but she pulled away before I touched her.

“Amelia! Chelsea!” Her voice was only a croak, but she kept calling their names, would keep on calling until the stars fell from the sky. “Amelia,” she whispered, finally allowing me to put an arm around her. “Chelsea . . .”

I hugged her hard, and was ready to speak painful platitudes when the miracle occurred.

“But you’re wrong, Daddy,” Chelsea called in a clear, young voice. “It is Mommy.” The girl ran down the escalator, coming down from the second-floor secure area, the escalator’s big moving steps making her short gait awkward and adorable.

“Mom!” Amelia was right behind Chelsea. “Are you coming with us?”

The two poured down the stairs in a rush of blond hair and happiness. Rosie knelt, gathering the girls to her in a large hug, but her gaze was trained on me, and there were question marks in her eyes. For we’d both seen Eric on the escalator behind the girls, and he was already walking rapidly to the exit.

I paused just long enough to say, “Don’t let them watch,” and started after him.

He looked over his shoulder, saw me leave Rosie’s side, noted my determined stance, and broke into a run.

One step, two, and then I was in top gear, chasing down the man who’d killed Sam, the man who’d caused Yvonne undeserved anguish, the man who’d caused all this pain. Run? Oh, yes, I’d run. I’d burn my lungs to fire, I’d run until I couldn’t run any longer, I’d run until the world ended to catch this man and put him where he belonged.

He dodged people carrying garment bags and carryons and wheeled suitcases, and I was right behind him. He hurdled a baggage cart awkwardly, and I gained a yard with my clean jump.

The automatic door slid open just ahead of him and we both went through it at a dead run.

He was bigger and stronger and my one small advantage was footwear. The slick bottoms of his dress oxfords couldn’t compete against the safe tread of my sensible shoes. Which wasn’t much of an advantage, but I’d make it work. I had to.

With a bare look at traffic, he started across the street. If he made it to the parking garage, he could use any of a hundred ways to escape. Run across the open fields and make his way into the city. Commandeer a car and drive away. Hide under vehicles or behind posts until the search ended, then slip away in the dark and—

No. That would not happen.

It. Would. Not.

My fierceness added a spurt of speed to my panting run. I was close, so close, I could almost touch him.

No! He’s starting to pull away, he’s going to get away, I’m not going to—

And then he slipped. His right shoe lost its purchase in the lumpy slush and he lost his balance. Just for one step, but one step was all I needed.

I pushed off with all my might into a flying horizontal leap. Arms outstretched, head down, I hurtled my body forward and tackled Eric Stull, grabbing him about the waist and bringing him to the wet sloppy ground.

Behind us, police car sirens wailed to a stop. Doors opened and officers piled out with a speed that was a great comfort at this moment in my life.

“Hello, Mrs. Kennedy.” Deputy Wheeler helped me to my feet. “Nice tackle. To be honest, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

I watched as two of her fellow officers handcuffed a struggling Eric. “That’s what I used to think,” I said.

She looked at me curiously, but I just smiled.

And, after a moment, she smiled back.