Dorothy did not look away from her until the woman took a seat in the last pew and folded her hands in her lap with the poise of someone attending a performance she expected to enjoy.
After the service, the fellowship hall filled with casseroles and grief and the repetitive mercy of people who did not know what else to say.
Jolene Marsh found Dorothy near the coffee urns.
Jolene had been Colleen’s best friend since seventh grade. Freckled, sharp-eyed, loyal to the point of recklessness. She looked as if she had aged ten years in three days.
“Dot,” she said, gripping Dorothy’s forearm, “I need to tell you something.”
Dorothy looked at her.
“About eight weeks ago, Colleen called me late at night. She sounded strange. Scared, maybe. She told me if anything ever happened to her during the birth, I should tell you to check the nursery closet. Behind the baby blankets.”
Dorothy did not react visibly.
“Did she say why?” Dorothy asked.
Jolene shook her head. “No. I thought she was just overwhelmed. I laughed and told her to stop watching crime shows. She didn’t laugh back.”
Across the room, Grant’s mother, Laurel Ashford, stood in a navy suit with pearls at her throat, speaking quietly to two women Dorothy recognized from the country club. She did not come over. She did not offer comfort. She merely watched Dorothy with the measured stillness of someone preserving information for later use.
That night Dorothy stayed in the guest room at Birchwood Lane, the house Colleen had once described as “too big for two adults but exactly right for chaos.” The nursery was at the end of the upstairs hall, painted a soft sunset yellow Colleen had chosen because she wanted the babies to wake each morning inside something warm.
The house was full of reminders. Colleen’s mug in the drying rack. Colleen’s prenatal vitamins on the kitchen counter. A cardigan draped over the back of a chair. Life paused mid-sentence.
Just after midnight, Dorothy sat upright in bed when she heard a voice through the baby monitor.
It was not the nanny’s voice. The hospital had sent home a temporary night nurse for the first week, and Dorothy already knew her sound.
This voice was younger. Silkier. Familiar in a way Dorothy hated instantly.
“Soon this will all be ours,” the woman whispered. “Just a little more patience.”
A pause. A low laugh.
Then footsteps. A door clicking shut.