“It’s not an it, Nigel. It’s a baby boy.”

“Was!” he screamed so loudly Winnie stepped back, knocking into the fridge.

Nigel breathed through his mouth.

“A baby boy who belonged to someone else, someone who might one day come back looking for him.” In the pause that followed, Nigel dropped his eyes to the hollow at Winnie’s neck. He wouldn’t look at her. Turning away, she whimpered behind him, aware of the rejection.

“Nigel—please. I’m sorry.”

He spun on her so fast she covered her face like she was almost afraid of him.

“You’re sorry? You...you killed a child tonight! Because of your foolishness. Because nothing is ever enough.” And then he punched the wall beside her head, his hand beating through the plaster in one sharp jab. Winnie screamed and slid down the wall, her eyes closed and her hands flailing. She could see the hate in his eyes, feel it so profusely that in that moment she knew he’d never be able to come back from it.

“Please!” She grabbed the hem of his shirt, but he stepped away, ripping it from her hands. She gaped up at him, her mouth opening and closing, but no words coming out. For better or for worse, was he forgetting that? “Help me. I love you. Please help me...”

      28

   WINNIE

Nigel had left for a run, and he’d only been gone for a few minutes when the doorbell rang. Winnie was tidying up the kitchen, scooping the last of the crumbs into her palm and dropping them in the sink as the chimes sounded. She brushed her palms together and then headed for the door, glancing up the stairs as she passed them, wondering if Samuel was finished with his homework. She’d take him a snack in a few minutes, she decided. Before her husband had left, he’d given her a generous kiss on the mouth and when he pulled back he’d said, “You’re wearing your face, slim.”

“Oh...? And what face is that?”

He’d grinned knowingly, but Winnie already knew what he was talking about. Things weren’t exactly good, but they were better. She’d stopped pulling away when he reached for her, and Nigel had resigned from his job so he’d be away from Dulce and they could try to keep their marriage alive. As always, Winnie was optimistic. He’d given her one last kiss and squeezed her right breast, saying “Later...” And now the prospect that he’d come home early to do “later” things excited her. Though why would he ring the doorbell? Had he forgotten his keys? She hadn’t looked at her phone; maybe he’d been calling her.

Winnie did not gaze through the peephole as she normally did. She opened the door with a smile, ready for whatever quip Nigel would deliver.

At first she thought the woman was trying to sell her something. She was older, maybe in her sixties, with an expensive haircut, and had a determined look about her. Winnie mentally rolled her eyes; she had been meaning to get a No Soliciting sign to hang by the door. She straightened her face, trying not to look as put out as she felt. She had her own expensive haircut, and she felt confident as she gazed down at the woman.

“Can I help you...?” Obligatory words.

“My name is Terry,” the woman said. She tilted her head to the side to examine Winnie, who felt affronted by the once-over she was being given.

And then Terry spoke rapidly, saying words that didn’t fit inside Winnie’s world: a therapist named Juno Holland had given her this address; did Winnie know where her grandson was? Stepping out onto the front step to join the obviously distressed grandmother, Winnie looked up and down the street to see if she could spot a lost boy. It was not fully dark yet, and she could make out several small figures across the street in the park. As a mother herself, she felt anxious for the woman; she’d lost Samuel once in Greenlake Park, and it had been the worst day of her life.

“Is he missing? Have you called the police?”

But the woman looked right past Winnie into the house. She was staring at the row of family photos that hung on the wall. She was staring at Samuel.

“Your grandson,” Winnie said again. She had the urge to snap her fingers in the woman’s face; make her focus. “Do you need to use my phone?”

The woman—Terry—looked back over her shoulder at the park, and then nodded. She was a nice-looking older woman, and as Winnie led her inside, she could feel hard muscle underneath her button-down shirt. Yoga, Pilates, a tennis trainer—she recognized the Hermes scarf tied around Terry’s neck. A rich little boy was lost, she noted. In the foyer, she sat Terry down in the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

And then she dashed off to the kitchen for her cell phone, grabbing a bottle of water off the counter to take with her. When she rounded the corner, phone in hand, Terry was no longer in the chair. Her back to Winnie; she was studying Samuel’s third grade class photo, but when she saw Winnie, she made no move toward the phone.

“Here,” Winnie said, extending it to her. She’d taken the time to open it first, the keypad ready to dial 911.

“Ma’am...?” Winnie didn’t like calling women “ma’am”; women of her mother’s age especially hated it. “I’m sorry, Terry...”

“Your son, how old is he?”

“I’m sorry?” she said again. Suddenly, she felt like little fingers were lightly touching her spine—warning fingers. Winnie retracted the hand offering the phone and took a step away.

“My name is Terry Russel.”

Terry Russel. That name landed in a loud gong in her head.

“I thought you said your grandson was missing. What do you want?”

Winnie held the phone tighter. She was the one in control here; she could call the police.

“You tell me.” Terry Russel turned toward Winnie, a cold smile on her face, served with ice-blue eyes. She was walking on black kitten heels. It occurred to Winnie that no one would be walking in the park with their grandkid while wearing Prada kitten heels.

“Tell you what? I have no idea what you’re talking about and if you don’t get out of my house, I’m going to call the police.”

At this Terry smiled, reseating herself on Winnie’s foyer chair.

“I think you should,” she said, crossing her legs. It looked like she was settling in for the night. “Tell them that Josalyn Russel’s mother is here, and that she would like a DNA test done on that boy!” The woman pointed at Samuel’s photo.

The fingers on her spine turned into a heat that exploded inside Winnie’s chest. She heard herself stutter “Ja—joss—”

Terry looked triumphant. “Josalyn,” she said, enunciating each syllable of the girl’s name, her eyes drilling accusatory holes into Winnie’s face. “My daughter.”