I PUT MY KEY in the lock of the front door to our apartment, and at that precise moment, I remembered that I hadn’t called Joe to say I wouldn’t be home for dinner. Actually, I hadn’t spoken to him in about twelve hours.

Way to go, Lindsay. Brilliant.

My border collie, Martha, heard me at the front door, barked, and, with toenails clattering across the wooden floor, hurled herself at my chest.

I cooed to her, ruffled her ears, and then found Joe in the living room. He was sitting in an armchair, reading light on, with eight different newspapers lying on the floor around the chair in sections.

He looked at me with reproach in his eyes.

“Your mailbox is full.”

“My mailbox?”

“Your phone.”

“Is it? I’m sorry, Joe. I had to turn my phone off. I was in the hospital ICU all day. A new case I’m working.”

“We were supposed to take my folks out for dinner tonight.”

“Oh my God. I’m sorry,” I said as my stomach dropped toward my toes. Joe had told me that we were going to take them out for some quality time and first-class steak at Harris’. I’d filed that information in a folder at the back of my mind and never looked back.

“They’re on the flight back to New York.”

“Honey, I’ll call them tomorrow and apologize. I feel like crap. They’re so great to me.”

“They’re treating us to a honeymoon. A little luxury shack in Hawaii. When we’ve got time.”

“Ah, shit. Is that what they said? That makes me feel even more rotten. There’s a baby missing …”