Winnie didn’t know what to do. The sound of the dead girl’s name paralyzed her, and she stared at Terry Russel, feeling like her face had turned to plaster. How had Terry found her? Everything that had happened that night had felt like the sort of thing that would happen in the movies, the sort of mistakes a stupid character made that left you yelling “No!” at the TV.

Even though Winnie was in her own house, on her own turf, she took a step back, and that was obviously enough to solidify her guilt in Terry’s mind. The older woman looked murderous.

“I know everything,” she said. “I know exactly what you did.”

“It was you!” Winnie said. “You sent me those articles and you somehow checked out a book on my library card! You’ve been stalking me!” She shook her head, openmouthed, so angry now that she missed the look of confusion on Terry’s face. “You’re crazy! I didn’t do anything to your daughter. Get the hell out!” Winnie marched toward the front door, determined to get this madwoman out of her home before Samuel heard or Nigel came home. She tried not to let her fear show as she yanked open the door and stared expectantly at Terry. Winnie had learned that if you used confidence to command people, they were often compelled to listen.

She heard Samuel’s bedroom door open at the same time Terry Russel turned to face the exit she clearly didn’t plan on taking. She stared right at Winnie as she said, “I know that you worked for Illuminations, the supposed facility where Josalyn was receiving care.”

Winnie’s heart was racing. If either she or Terry called the police, there would be questions. Of course, there was no proof—nothing. Was there?

“I have the police report Josalyn made, reporting her kidnapped infant,” Terry continued, and that’s when Winnie’s vision shook like there was an earthquake in her head. If she hadn’t been holding on to the door, trying to usher Terry Russel out, she would have collapsed.

The police report. No one knew about that because the woman in it had not been named—she’d been a Jane Doe. Josalyn had somehow found Winnie’s landline after she stopped picking up her cell—and left a message on the answering machine.

Winnie could still hear the girl’s voice, thick with something she’d either drunk or smoked. When she said Winnie’s name it came out “Wunnie...”

“Someone took my kid, my fucking kid. Please call me. I don’t have a phone anymore, I’m calling from a payphone. I tried to go to the police and make a report, but fuck, they don’t give a shit about me, they never did! Fuck you, Officer Morales!” She’d shouted the last part, like there was an officer standing in front of her. “They thought I was drunk, they wouldn’t listen to me...!” And then the line had gone dead. She’d played the message once more and then deleted it. Within the hour, Winnie had disconnected the home phone with the company and put the cordless relic in the pile to take to Goodwill. She changed her cell number, too, and made sure the new one was unlisted. She’d replaced the landline later, when she wasn’t so afraid, and Nigel asked why they got rid of it in the first place.

“I don’t remember,” she had lied.

For the next few weeks, she’d pored over articles online, trying to find a mention of Josalyn, though Winnie wasn’t certain who to look for. A girl...? A homeless woman...? A prostitute...? She’d been all those things under Winnie’s care, but she’d also been something else—a very vulnerable, likable girl. There was nothing in the news or online about any of the above, nor did the news report a missing infant. A child no one knew existed had simply ceased to exist. She could have let it go, but her need to know what happened to Josalyn was consuming. Eventually she’d done the only thing she could—asked Nigel for help.

“Why can’t you leave it alone?”

“Don’t you want to know so we can be—”

“What, Winnie?” He had a look of disgust on his face. “Better prepared to lie our way out of it?”

She’d seen red then; it was like he wanted her to go to prison. “Well, yes, Nigel,” she’d snapped. “I don’t want to go to prison. Do you want me to go to prison?” She’d placed both hands on her belly, which had swollen to the size of a melon. He’d caved. Nigel had no intention of raising a baby alone. Together, they’d decided that Nigel would go to Mike, Shelly’s husband. Not only did Mike really like Nigel, he was of those “bros before hoes” types. If Nigel asked his cop brother-in-law to dig up some dirt on someone or look up police reports, he would. And if he asked him to keep it a secret, he’d do that, too—the more beers Nigel was able to get in him the better.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” she said firmly, masking her fear with her deep disdain for this woman who’d shown up on her doorstep to start a war.

“Of course you don’t.” Terry Russel smiled bitterly. “But I have it right here if you need to see it.” She pulled a piece of folded paper from the side pocket of her handbag and held it out to Winnie. She stared down at the white square in horror. She had no intention of touching that thing. She shook her head, not taking her eyes from the woman’s face. She didn’t have to read it; she knew exactly what it said. How could this woman have it? And she didn’t want Terry Russel thinking she was entertaining the garbage coming out of her mouth either. But it’s not garbage is it, Winnie? said a voice from deep inside her.

She tried again. “I need you to leave right now.” If the woman didn’t get out of her home in twenty seconds, she was going to remove her herself. But Terry Russel looked as if her own spool of sanity was unraveling. Winnie had seen that look plenty—often in the mirror. With a sinking feeling in her belly, she realized that she wasn’t going to get rid of Terry Russel that easily.

Terry, seeing something waver in Winnie’s eyes, pulled back her upper lip and said from between her teeth, “Where is my daughter’s baby? Where is Josalyn’s son?”

Winnie’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t have said a word if she’d wanted to. Was this woman saying—did this woman think—she was still trying to piece together what was happening, that there was a stranger in her house accusing her loudly of something as her son was doing his homework upstairs. Samuel. Terry thought that Samuel—

“You took my daughter’s child!” Terry Russel wasn’t shouting, but her voice was so cold she didn’t have to.

“He’s...not her son!” Winnie gasped. “You crazy old bitch. Get out of my house!”

She hadn’t called anyone a bitch since she was eighteen, and then it had been because her best friend had slept with her boyfriend. It flew out of her mouth with enough venom to stop Terry Russel in her kitten-heeled tracks. But then—oddly—Terry’s head pivoted right, like she’d seen something outside the open door. Winnie thought that she was imagining the whites of Terry’s eyes growing larger with each passing second, but then the woman’s mouth opened and she let out a little gurgle of surprise.