I stared at the phone, water dripping from my elbow onto the bathmat. A cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach, utterly at odds with the warm, steamy bathroom. I tried to call back. Straight to voicemail. I told myself she was having a breakdown, maybe an argument with her husband. I finished bathing Maya, tucked her and my nine-year-old son, Devon, into bed, and paced the living room until sunrise.