Juno paused, resting her hands in her lap as she considered how to word the next part. The next part was important.

Your grandson is in that house.

She hit send without bothering to sign her name. There. All she had to do now was wait. Wait for Terry, wait for atonement, wait for death.

      27

   WINNIE

On Winnie’s last day at Illuminations for Mental Health, she’d had to turn in her work phone and laptop, which would then be assigned to whomever replaced her. She remembered feeling almost relieved as she set the two items in a box, along with her badge and access cards, and placed them on her superior’s desk. She would no longer be tied to the things of the past. When she stepped out of the building for the last time, the sharp February air filling her lungs, she felt...free. That’s what her therapist was helping her see: at the end of trauma was the road to a new beginning.

Winnie had felt like she didn’t deserve a new anything—and then hope had come in the form of a missed period and a positive pregnancy test. After all the years of hoping, all six miscarriages she couldn’t bring herself to let go of, despite the heartbreak they caused her. She’d even secretly kept scraps of the clothing she’d been wearing when she’d miscarried all those times, as morbid as that probably was.

Renewed, she felt that God had given her the forgiveness she had been begging for. She wasn’t a terrible person; she was a good person who had made a bad decision. And for the rest of her life, Winnie planned on atoning for that decision, starting with her baby. He or she would be raised to be conscious of all life, tender, well rounded. Winnie would fix what she had done. She would raise such a wonderful child, so caring and aware. And she’d started by quitting her job so she could take care of this baby full time. She’d only gone back to work when he started kindergarten.

Sam was just going through a stage; all teenagers rebelled against their parents. How many times had she repeated that to herself over the last six months? If Winnie were honest, she’d be able to acknowledge that her current lust for another baby had been triggered by Samuel’s snipping of the apron strings. Fill the hole, do a better job as a mother next time. It was a bold-faced lie she enjoyed telling herself. She could give birth to ten of her own babies and that one baby would still take the primary spot in her heart and mind. Because you killed him, Winnie told herself. And she would never, ever forget that day.

Winnie walked into the house just as the sky was waking up. She didn’t remember getting back into the car or driving home, and now, as she fumbled with the lever on the kitchen sink, she opened it and bent her head to guzzle water straight from the tap This isn’t happening, not really, it’s just a very bad dream, she told herself. There was a strange buzzing noise, interrupted by chirps. A phone. A phone was ringing somewhere. Her phone, she knew. She couldn’t even bring herself to dig for it and look at the screen—she knew whose name she’d see there. She watched as the water washed down the sink. Nigel’s voice was behind her, in the kitchen. It was louder than the awful noise—that god-awful buzzing.

“What happened, what happened?” he said, over and over. She didn’t know; this was a dream. No, it was real. The noise was her; Winnie realized that she was crying, mewling like a lost kitten.

“What happened?” he said again.

Winnie looked down at her sweatshirt, over the spot where her heart was. It was empty. She’d pulled his little body out and laid him on the passenger seat of her car.

“Winnie!” Nigel was shouting now, shaking her. His hand came up and hit her across the face, hard enough to stun her out of the nightmare.

So she told him. Nigel had stopped yelling and was staring at her, his eyes so wide. She’d never seen him look that afraid.

“It was so cold, Nigel, he was suffering... I just wanted to help him.” She was trembling so hard her teeth knocked together. Nigel took a step away from her. “There was trash everywhere. I had to crawl to reach him—”

“Winnie... Winnie...” he said, breathless, interrupting her. “Is he dead? Is the baby dead?”

Her howls came from somewhere deep in her belly, raw and ugly, answering his question. Nigel grabbed his wife, pressed her face into his chest so that she would stop screaming.

“The car. It skidded on black ice. I had him in my sweatshirt.” She held a fist to the spot; she could still feel his heat against her, his tiny vulnerable body cradled to her chest. “I thought I could keep him warm that way. I was taking him to the hospital. The car skidded... I hit the barrier.” She raised three fingers to her hairline where her forehead had hit the steering wheel. There was blood, but only a trickle. “I think he died on impact, or I smothered him!” Her voice was hysterical.

Nigel grabbed her face, pinched it between his fingers and studied her with wild eyes.

“He’s dead. Oh my God!” She tore at her face, her nails ripping, but she could barely feel it.

“Winnie!” He shook her hard so that her head snapped back. “Did anyone see you take him?”

She shook her head, lips pressed together. “No, Jos—she was alone.”

“And the accident...?” His fingers bit into the flesh of her arms and she yelped.

“No one saw,” she sobbed. “You’re hurting me.”

“How do you know?” She could hear her teeth crack together as he rattled her like a doll.

“It was snowing! There was no one on the road.” She drew back, trying to pull herself from his hold, but he wouldn’t let go. “The car was still on so I drove home.”

“Where is it? Where is the body?”

“In the car.” She reached for his face and he pulled back, disgusted. “You have to bury him. She gave birth to him in a tent. She was a drug addict!” She screamed this last part into his face, spit landing on his cheek. He stared at her in disbelief.

“And that makes what you did okay? Fuck!” He pulled at his hair, shaking his head. “It’s not for us to decide. We have to go the proper route, tell the authorities...”

She could feel how labored his breathing was, could hear the thumping of his heart. Nigel was scared.

“No! Nigel, no. They’ll arrest me... I’ll lose my job. We can’t—please.”

Winnie clawed at his chest in panic. She never thought, not in a million years, that he would suggest turning herself in. She imagined herself in prison and let out a wail. Nigel grabbed her wrists, held them. She flailed, wanting to get away, but also wanting to be held until her hysteria passed.

“Stop it. Stop,” he commanded. She thought he was going to slap her again, but he didn’t.

“You killed it, Winnie. You stole a baby and you’re responsible for what happened to it after that.”