Part of me feels bad, like I tattled on the poor kid. I try to cover for him. “He wasn’t holding it. I saw it on the floor and assumed that’s what happened.”

I’m still shaken from what Crew said about Verity and the knife, but I remind myself that everyone talks about Verity in present tense. The nurse, Jeremy, Crew. I’m sure Verity told him not to play with knives in the past, and now my imagination is turning it into more than it is.

Jeremy opens the medicine cabinet behind Crew and grabs a first-aid kit. When he closes the mirror, he’s staring at my reflection. “Go check,” he mouths, motioning toward the door with his head.

I leave the bathroom, but pause in the hallway. I don’t like going in that room, no matter how helpless Verity is. But I also know Crew doesn’t need to have access to a knife, so I trudge forward.

Verity’s door is still wide open, so I tiptoe in, not wanting to wake her. Not that I could. I round the bed, to where Crew was on the floor.

There’s no knife.

I turn around, wondering if maybe I kicked it somewhere when I picked him up. When I still don’t see it, I lower myself to the floor to check under the bed. It’s completely empty beneath the frame, other than a thin layer of dust. I slide my hand beneath the nightstand next to the hospital bed, but find nothing.

I know I saw a knife. I’m not going crazy.

Am I?

I put my hand on the mattress to lift myself up off the floor, but immediately shift backward onto my palms when I catch Verity watching me. Her head is in a different position, turned to the right, her eyes on mine.

Holy shit! I choke on my fear as I scoot myself backward, away from her bed. I end up several feet away from her, and even though her head is the only thing different about her from when I walked into the room, my fear is telling me to run for my life. I pull myself up, using the dresser for support, and keep my eyes fixated on her as I move back toward the door, facing her the whole time. I’m trying to suppress my terror, but I’m not convinced she isn’t about to lunge at me with the knife she picked up from the floor.

I close her door behind me and stand there, gripping the doorknob, until I can control my panic. I breathe in and out, steadily, five times, hoping Jeremy doesn’t see the terror in my eyes when I walk back to tell him there was no knife.

But there was a knife.

My hands are shaking. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust this house. As much as I know I need to stay in order to do the best job, I’d much rather sleep in my rental car on the streets of Brooklyn for the next week than sleep in this house another night.

I squeeze the tension from my neck as I return to the bathroom. Jeremy is bandaging up Crew’s chin.

“You’re lucky you don’t need stitches,” Jeremy says to Crew. He’s helping Crew wash the blood from his hands, and then tells him to go play. Crew brushes past me and returns to Verity’s room.

I find it odd that sitting on her bed while he plays his iPad is fun for him. But then again, I’m sure he just wants to be near his mother. Have at it, buddy. I don’t want to be near her at all.

“Did you grab the knife?” Jeremy asks, drying his hands on a towel.

I try to refrain from sounding as scared as I still feel. “I couldn’t find it.”

Jeremy eyes me for a second and then says, “But you saw one?”

“I thought I did. Maybe I didn’t. It wasn’t there.”

Jeremy brushes past me. “I’ll look around.” He walks toward Verity’s room, but turns around and pauses as he reaches her door. “Thanks for helping him.” He smiles, but it’s a playful grin. “I know how busy you’ve been today.” He winks at me before walking into Verity’s room.

I close my eyes and allow the embarrassment to sink in. I deserved that. He probably thinks all I do is stare out that office window.

I should probably take two Xanax at this point.

When I get back to Verity’s office, the sun is beginning to set, which means Crew will shower and go to bed soon. Verity will remain in her room for the night. And I’ll feel somewhat safe, because for whatever reason, I’m only scared of Verity in this house. And I don’t have to be around her at nighttime. In fact, nighttime has become my favorite time around here because it’s when I see the least of Verity and the most of Jeremy.

I’m not sure how much longer I can try to convince myself that I don’t have a serious crush on that man. I’m also not sure how much longer I can try to convince myself that Verity is a better person than she really is. I think, after reading every book in her series, I’m beginning to understand the reason her suspense novels do so well is because of how she writes them from the villain’s point of view.

Critics love that about her. When I listened to her first audiobook on the drive over, I loved that her narrator seemed a little psychotic. I wondered how Verity got in the mind of her antagonists like she did. But that was before I knew her.

I still don’t technically know her, but I know the Verity who wrote the autobiography. It’s apparent that the way she wrote the rest of her novels wasn’t a unique approach for her. After all, they say write what you know. I’m beginning to think Verity writes from a villainous point of view because she’s a villain. Being evil is all she knows.

I feel a little evil myself as I open the drawer and do exactly what I swore to myself I wouldn’t do again: read another chapter.

So Be It

They were determined to live, I’ll give them that.

Nothing I tried worked. The attempted self-abortion, the random pills, the “accidental” fall down a flight of stairs. The only thing any of my attempts resulted in was a small scar on one of the baby’s cheeks. A scar I’m sure I’m responsible for. A scar Jeremy couldn’t shut up about.

A few hours after they brought me to the room after their birth—cesarean, thank god—their pediatrician came by to check on the girls. I closed my eyes, pretending to nap, but really I was just scared to interact with their pediatrician. I feared he would see right through me and know I had no idea how to be a mother to these things.

Jeremy asked the doctor about the scar before he left the room. The doctor brushed it off, said it’s not uncommon for identical twins to accidentally scratch each other in utero. Jeremy disagreed. “It’s too deep to be a simple scratch, though.”

“Could be scarring from fibrous tissue,” the doctor said. “No worries. It’ll fade with time.”

“I’m not worried about the way it looks,” Jeremy said, almost defensively. “I’m worried it could be something more serious.”

“It’s not. Your daughters are perfectly healthy. Both of them.”

Figures.

The doctor left and the nurse was gone and it was just Jeremy, the girls, and me. One of them was asleep in the glass bed thing—I don’t know what it’s called. Jeremy was holding the other one. He was smiling down at her when he noticed my eyes were open.

“Hey, Momma.”

Please don’t call me that.

I smiled at him anyway. He looked good as a dad. Happy. Never mind that his happiness had little to do with me. But even in my jealousy, I could appreciate him. He was probably going to be the type of dad to change their diapers. To help with feedings. I knew I’d appreciate that side of him even more with time. I just needed to get used to this. To being a mother.

“Bring me the scarred one,” I said.

Jeremy made a face, indicating he was disappointed in my choice of words. I guess that was a weird way to put it, but we hadn’t named them yet. The scar was her only identifier.

He carried her to me and placed her in my arms. I looked down at her. I waited for the flood of emotions, but there wasn’t even a trickle. I touched her cheek, ran my finger down the scar. I guess the wire hanger wasn’t strong enough. I probably should have used something that didn’t give so easily under pressure. A knitting needle? I’m not sure it would have been long enough.

“The doctor said the scarring could be a scratch.” Jeremy laughed. “Fighting before they were even born.”

I smiled down at her. Not because I felt like smiling, but because it’s probably what I was supposed to do. I didn’t want Jeremy to think I wasn’t in love with her like he was. I took her hand and wrapped it around my pinky. “Chastin,” I whispered. “You can have the better name since your sister was so mean to you.”