Chapter 2

She pulled me into a mudroom that smelled of wet boots and pine. Coats hung on hooks. A child's red scarf dangled from the lowest one. "I'm Martha." Her hands shook. "I've kept this house for thirty years. Please, you have to go before he sees you." "Who is that boy?" She closed her eyes. "Martha. Who is he?" "Master Theo." Barely a whisper. "He turns four in March." Four in March. Adrian and I were married in June. Five years ago. I did the math standing there with snow melting down my collar, and the numbers kept coming out the same no matter how many times I ran them. "She was pregnant," I said. "At my wedding." Martha didn't answer. She didn't have to. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. A man's voice. Laughing. Adrian's. Martha pushed me toward the back door. "Go. And Mrs. Blackwood, there's something else. Mrs. Eleanor, she thinks you—" The inner door handle turned. I ran. I made it two miles before I pulled onto the shoulder, threw open the door, and was sick in the snow. My body didn't know which shock to answer first. The baby. Or the other baby. My phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Adrian. I stared at his name until it nearly stopped ringing. Then I answered. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart." Warm. Tender. The voice I'd fallen in love with. "Grandmother's in rare form tonight. God, I miss you." I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel. "Who's there with you?" "Just the family. Blood only, remember?" A soft laugh. "I'd trade all of them to be on the couch with you right now." In the background, high and bright: "Daddy! Come open presents! Mommy says I can open one!" Silence on the line. One second. Two. "Cousin Julian's kid," Adrian said smoothly. "They're all wild tonight. I have to go, babe. Love you." Click. He didn't even hesitate. That was what broke something in me. Not the lie. The ease of it. Like a muscle he'd used every day for years. I drove home with the radio off. The penthouse was dark and silent. Our tree stood in the corner, the one I'd decorated alone. Under it, the gift I'd wrapped for him: a baby-sized cashmere sweater with a card that said, Guess what, Daddy? I'd planned to give it to him tomorrow morning. I walked past it and straight to his study. Five years, and I had never gone inside without knocking. He called it his sanctuary. I called it respect. I opened every drawer. Contracts. Bank statements. Cigar cutters. Nothing. Then the bottom drawer, the one that stuck. I yanked it hard enough to break a nail. Inside, face down, was a child's drawing in a silver frame. Three stick figures under a yellow sun. A tall man. A woman with long dark hair. A tiny boy holding both their hands. Crayon letters, crooked and proud: ME. MOMMY. DADDY. BY THEO, AGE 3. Beneath it, a manila envelope. A certified copy of a birth certificate. Child's name: Theodore Adrian Cross. Mother: Vivian Elise Cross. Father: Adrian James Blackwood. Date of birth: March 3rd. Eight months after our wedding. I sat down on the floor of the study with the certificate in my lap, and a memory rose up so sharp it stole my breath. My wedding morning. The bridal suite. My hands shaking too badly to pin my own veil. Vivian had come in with a bouquet from the office. She'd stepped behind me, fixed the veil with gentle fingers, and smiled at me in the mirror. One hand resting lightly on her stomach. "You look so lucky, Nora," she'd said. She had been carrying my husband's son while she fixed my veil. And she'd smiled at me the whole time.