Then Sophie whispered my name.
I turned.
She was trying to stand, one hand gripping the arm of the rocking chair, but her knees buckled.
I caught her before she hit the floor.
She flinched.
I felt it.
Her body recoiled from my hands before her mind remembered who I was.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I should have told you.”
“No.” My throat tightened. “I should have seen.”
Her fingers curled weakly against my shirt.
“She said you’d think I was crazy.”
“I don’t.”
“She said she had proof.”
“I don’t care.”
“She said she could make you hate me.”
I looked at my mother.
Penelope stood very still near the changing table, the pill bottle hidden now in her closed fist.
“Give me the bottle,” I said.
She smiled.
“What bottle?”
Police entered the room seconds later.
Two officers. One older, one younger. Both assessing everything at once: my wife injured in my arms, my mother composed beside the crib, the nursery too perfect except for the overturned blanket basket and the pills missing from sight.
Paramedics arrived behind them and took Sophie from me with gentle efficiency.
