“That sounds like something you’d do, Win. Remember when we were little, and you stole the puppy from the neighbor’s yard and brought it home?”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. That had happened over twenty-five years ago. The story had been told over and over by her siblings, each version painting Winnie like some sort of remorseless sociopath. She’d just been a kid, seen a puppy launching itself at the side of the fence to get to her, and had...taken it. She’d made a mistake. Dakota wasn’t being serious, he couldn’t be.

She tried to yell at him, but she couldn’t form words. “The kid’s not here,” Dakota said, still looking at Terry. “But even if he were, what would make me believe a wild story like that, even if it does sound like Winnie?” His voice had the tone of a man speaking to a misbehaving child. The hairs on the back of Winnie’s neck stood at attention. That didn’t sound like Dakota at all.

Over Dakota’s shoulder, she could see Terry’s eyes ticking back and forth like a metronome. She was working on an angle, Winnie realized, and before she could blink a second time, Terry was spinning it.

“Did you ever see her pregnant? Your...sister?”

Winnie froze. When Terry continued, she sounded breathless, winded by her lies.

“She wanted a baby very much, didn’t she? She was probably jealous when everyone else her age started having them.”

Dakota stood up suddenly, towering over Terry Russel and rolling his neck from side to side like he had the world’s largest crick. He considered her for a moment and then said, “Now that you mention it...”

Terry’s face transformed from hopeful to triumphant, while Winnie’s tears began a slow leak down her face. Her throat was raw from screaming against the gag, and there was an ache in her chest that was paralyzing in its enormity. Terry told Dakota her story in a clear, calm voice, painting herself as the distraught, concerned mother whose daughter had gotten involved with the wrong crowd, the crowd that had eventually swept her away from Akron, Ohio, toward greener grass in Washington. Her sweet Josalyn had landed pregnant and destitute in Seattle. Enter Winnie.

Winnie herself, who no longer had the energy to hold her head up, sat slouched against the wall, her face dangling above her own crotch. When Terry Russel said her name, she didn’t bother looking up. She had pieced together the story and had spun a narrative that suited her. And she’d done her research.

“She was working at Illuminations for Mental Health at the time Josalyn sought care there,” Terry said. “I spoke with the head doctor at the facility, and he confirmed that your sister was Josalyn’s counselor. In fact, after your sister left her job—” she paused “—Josalyn contacted Illuminations several times, asking for contact information for Winifred Crouch. She even once told the receptionist that Winnie stole her baby.”

Winnie watched the back of her brother’s head, wondering if he was buying this. Even six months ago, she’d have known the answer to that. She thought she knew everything about her brother, but now, she realized that she knew only what she wanted to know, what it suited her to know.

Terry Russel was asking Dakota to look at the police report in her handbag. He did, the gun still dangling from his hand, tossing aside Terry’s wallet, which he briefly opened to check her license.

“She’s who she says she is,” he said, turning to Winnie. His eyebrows were raised in mock surprise. Winnie could do nothing but blink. She was fiercely thirsty. She kept expecting Nigel to walk through the door; he’d help her get out of this. But her own brother had murdered him. Murdered. The word was foreign to Winnie. She’d never once worried that someone she loved would be murdered, never had to.

She looked at Terry, who was smiling coldly at her, a challenge. Josalyn had said that her stepfather molested her and that her mother had chosen not to see it. Looking at Terry Russel, Winnie wondered if it was true. And how had she come to find Winnie? Juno Holland, who was that? Another of her husband’s whores, she thought. As if Dulce Tucker hadn’t been enough. And it was mostly anger that filled Winnie after that: Nigel had told someone, and that someone had sent this woman to her doorstep.

“Your grandson is dead!” she screamed through her gag. But she could tell they hadn’t understood her words.

Terry licked her lips again, keeping her eyes trained on Dakota like she was trying to hypnotize him.

“I’ll take him and go. I won’t tell anyone what happened. I only want my grandson. Please.”

Dakota took a few seconds to process what she’d said before he started to laugh. The shocked look on her face indicated that Terry had thought her negotiations were going well.

“You don’t want to hurt him, he’s just a boy.”

Winnie stared between them desperately. Terry Russel was trying to save her son from whatever Dakota had planned, but only so she could kidnap him. It was like looking at the speeding car coming toward you and knowing you were going to be killed by lightning before it arrived. “The kid’s not here,” Dakota had said. Samuel had to be hiding somewhere in the house, terrified. Could he have managed to get out...? Jumped out his window...?

“Just a kid,” he repeated, nodding slowly. But his voice was flat and emotionless, like he was reading off of a script. “No one cares about my kids. No one cares that they won’t have a father.” She read the alarm in Terry’s eyes, saw her blinking rapidly.

“You can be their father. You can. Leave right now and—”

But Dakota was crying, his shoulders shaking. That felt more normal, Winnie thought, and silently, she urged her brother to come to his senses.

“Nigel,” he gasped, “took my family from me.” He spun away from Terry, walking toward Winnie with so much determination she was sure he was going to kill her right then and there. He knelt so that he was directly in front of her face. “Manda won’t take me back and Nigel turned you against me, too.” He jerked toward Winnie on the last word, and she braced herself for impact. But Dakota didn’t hit her. He was looking at her like he couldn’t decide what to do with her.

“You’re not my family,” he said. “You stopped being my family the day you took that pig’s side and kicked your own flesh and blood out of your house.” His words sounded wet and slushy, like he was talking through a mouthful of water. Winnie began to moan. She knew these stories; she’d worked with the mentally ill for years.

Dakota didn’t seem to see either of them as he stood up and turned toward the window, staring into the darkness, his head tilted. He’d snapped; it didn’t matter why or how, and now her brother was going to kill them like he’d killed Nigel. He’d needed someone to blame for the pisswork he’d made of his life, and with Manda filing the divorce papers...

“What do you have to say for yourself, sister?”