Six months later
“I hate you.”
Sutton said the words simply. A recitation of fact.
Ethan laughed. “You don’t. You love me. You love us.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t hate you.”
It had become something of a joke between them. The more she said she hated him, the more it meant she loved him. Most of the time.
Her aunt Josephine had once told her that making love is the most honest thing you can do with another person. So if you’re not ready to lay bare your soul to a boy, she’d said, you should probably wait.
Sutton wished she had waited. She wished she’d done so many things differently. Especially facing the demons when they’d come for her, instead of running away. There was a life to be led now, one fraught with terror. She caressed her stomach, the life within her. Yes, she was scared. So very scared. But there was hope again. A chance for them to start anew.
Therapy had helped with the guilt. With the pain. The knowledge her own child had created an untenable world for her, had manipulated her, had murdered her son, and tried to kill her and Ethan as well, was hard to fathom. Surreal, at times.
That Sutton had killed her daughter in turn was difficult to live with. It would never get better. She would always carry the blame, the sense that if only she’d acted differently in her teens, Ivy wouldn’t have turned into a monster.
The therapist made her understand that it wasn’t her fault. That Ivy’s actions were her own.
Joel Robinson had defended her in court, and she was finishing her probation next week. She’d gotten off lightly, and she knew it. The government had good cause to throw her in jail, but Robinson was as good as they came, and the plea deal was very satisfying to all parties involved.
Through it all, Ethan had been a rock.
They weren’t fixed, the two of them, but there was hope. They’d been changed by the horror of all they lost, and what it had cost them. Changed by purposefully forgiving themselves. Changed by visiting the grave of the woman who’d wreaked terror in their lives. Changed by retreating to their art and each other, the only things they ever truly needed. Changed by finding truth in their love.
Things were almost too perfect. Sutton decided not to think about it. If she didn’t, perhaps things would stay this way forever.
However you looked at it, they were healing, cleanly. Together.
In the afternoons, they sat on the porch, in the swing. Touching, always touching. The air was cool now. Forgotten leaves littered the lawn, a final spray of gold and rust. Today, Sutton’s head was in Ethan’s lap. His right hand rested on her burgeoning belly; his left held a book he’d been asked to endorse. It was quiet. Calm. Normal. The breeze and the book’s pages whispered together.
They were quiet again for a moment. Sutton stared at the ceiling of the porch. “We need to repaint those boards before the baby comes. In a couple of weeks, we’re going to be up all night and day and—”
Ethan leaned down and kissed her. Ran his hand along her palm. Kissed the scar, white now, thick and twisted and shiny, from where the knife had slipped that horrible night. She’d been marked, in so many ways.
“The ceiling will wait. I’ll need something to do to get me out of tour.”
“You can’t get out of tour, and you know it. The book is too important. It’s too good. It’s going to change lives, Ethan.”
“It’s changed ours, and that’s all that matters to me.”
They’d talked about it before, his book, the one that would change lives. She truly thought it could. It was searing, honest, real. The reviews were already insanely good. There was talk of Pulitzers and National Book Awards.
To his credit, Ethan had done his best to ignore them. Oh, a spark of pride popped up now and again, but Sutton knew—hoped—it was more a function of profound relief that he’d managed to write another book, and that she had loved every word.
Ethan set aside the novel he was reading. “How is your book coming? You haven’t said much about it this week.”
She sighed, a happy sound. “I finished the last scene this morning. I think I can move to the epilogue now.”
Ethan’s smile was huge. “Honey, that’s great. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because Holly called and I got sidetracked. I’ve only remembered now. Pregnancy brain.”
“What did our favorite detective want?”
“She’s going to stop by tonight. Said she has a surprise.”
“I hope it involves wine.”
“I hope it involves food.”
Holly Graham, their new best friend. She’d nearly died for them, had spent two weeks in a coma, her frightened parents hovering over her like birds on the nest. When she’d woken up, all of Middle Tennessee had cheered. It took her a solid month in the hospital, multiple surgeries, and setbacks, but when she was cleared to leave, she insisted on doing it under the cover of darkness, ostensibly so no one could see her limp. Sutton and Ethan knew the truth. She didn’t want to be lauded as a hero. She loved her job, and was grateful she’d be able to return to it.
It didn’t matter. Word leaked. She’d walked out of the hospital, hand on her cane, to a massive crowd of well-wishers and media. When she waved to the cameras, the crowd shouted in happiness.
The story, as was to be expected, was everywhere, even now, six months hence. Sutton and Ethan had been approached countless times about interviews, television, movies. Holly had been accosted by directors. They were all fielding offers to write a book. Holly refused outright. Sutton didn’t think they should, either, and Ethan agreed. But Bill and Jess were pushing, hard.
Ivy was gone. Her accomplice was in jail. Their lives were their own again.
The baby rolled lazily under his father’s hand, then kicked his mother in the kidney for good measure.
“Oof,” Sutton said, enjoying every minute. “He’s going to be a football player.”
“Cricket. The boy will play cricket.”
Holly Graham’s unmarked car pulled up in front of them.
“Holly’s here,” Ethan said.
“Oh, Lord, help me up. I look like a whale lying here.”
“You look beautiful.” But he helped her, laughing, a hand at her back. She was ungainly; she was adorable.
Holly gave them both careful hugs. “Should we go inside? I have some news.”
“Uh-oh. I’ve heard that tone from teachers about to slap my hand with a ruler,” Ethan joked. But Sutton said, “Yes, let’s go in. It’s too cool now, anyway.”
In the kitchen, Sutton ran her hand along the marble counter. She sat on a breakfast stool, pressed her aching back into the tall seat. Ethan sat next to her. Holly stood.
“This will be difficult to hear.”
“Go on,” Sutton said, feigning nonchalance. She knew the words were coming. She could feel them in the air.
“Ivy was wrong.”
* * *
Ethan was pacing by the window, a caged tiger, fury emanating off him like a storm.
Sutton hadn’t moved from her spot.
Holly was still talking, explaining, soothing.
“We’re absolutely sure. We found her notebooks, her computer records. All her research, all the painstaking details she’d sifted through, all the assumptions she’d made, all of them were wrong. The only fact she got right was that she was the daughter of a woman who had her while in juvenile detention.”
“But not me,” Sutton whispered.
“No. Not you. Not even the same facility. When all the juvenile facilities went online, as mandated by the State of Tennessee, the records were accidentally merged together. On paper, Elizabeth Sutton Wilson was named as the mother of a little girl the nurses called Ivy.”
“So who is she really? Who was her mother?” Ethan demanded.
“Legally, I can’t share that information, but she’s gone. She died from a heroin overdose the month after she got out of juvie.”
“But my daughter? Do you know—”
“Wait,” Ethan said, striding toward Holly so quickly she almost flinched. Almost. “Before you answer, Holly... Sutton, you need to think this through. There’s no going back.”
Sutton nodded. “I know.”
Holly tapped her notebook. “I have as much or as little information as you want, Sutton. The adoption was closed, but under the circumstances...”
“Give me a moment. I need some water.”
Ethan hurried to the refrigerator, pulled out an ice-cold bottle. Poured her a glass and handed it to her, watching her carefully.
Sutton drank, willing her heart to slow. She set the glass on the counter. “I don’t want to know who she is. I don’t want to know where she is. I just want to be sure she’s okay, that’s all. That she has had a good life. That she’s not a freak like Ivy. That I didn’t create a monster. That’s all I want to know.”
Ethan blew out a huge sigh, sounding strangely relieved.
“I understand completely,” Holly said. “I can assure you that she is a happy, well-adjusted young woman.”
“Then that’s all I need. She deserves a chance at a happy, settled life. It’s why I gave her up in the first place. I don’t want to ruin her life. I especially don’t want our notoriety to influence her. We have too much baggage now.”
“Stay for dinner,” Sutton said, starting to get up, but Holly waved her off.
“I promised Jim I’d come over after I talked to you. He’s going to open some wine, make us steaks. Besides, you need time. If you change your mind—”
“I won’t. Get rid of the notes, Holly.”
“I will. I’ll see myself out. Y’all have a good night, okay?”
Ethan followed Holly to the door, anyway. He retrieved the book he’d left on the porch, then turned the dead bolt and came back to the kitchen. He rubbed Sutton’s shoulder, and she leaned into his warmth.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m all right. I’m relieved, actually.”
“All that pain, all that fear and loathing, all for nothing.”
“Ivy wouldn’t have said it was nothing. Ivy would have seen the abandonment regardless. She would have found a way to ruin someone else’s life, instead of ours.”
“We’re not ruined, Sutton.”
The baby kicked in agreement, and she smiled. “You’re right. That’s the wrong word to use. I’m sorry.”
“Do you need some time to think about all this?”
She paused a moment. “Maybe thinking isn’t what I need right now. Why don’t I go do something mindless instead? I need to answer some email, anyway. That’s perfect.”
He searched her eyes, but seemed satisfied she was telling the truth. “Okay. Off with you. I’ll get things started.”
Twenty minutes later, Ethan opened her office door and stuck his head in. Grinned at his beautiful wife on the couch, legs up, laptop opened. She closed the lid.
“Dinner’s ready?” she asked.
“In five. I made carbonara. I figured you needed something warm.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll be there in a second. Almost done here.”
* * *
Sutton waits for the snick of the door, then opens her laptop to the blue-and-white banners of the social media giant that destroyed the world’s anonymity.
The photograph is thumbnail-size, but a quick click opens it to fill the screen.
A young woman, standing on a beach, silhouetted by the sun.
Her legs are long, still coltish, her hair a soft shade of strawberry. Her nose seems carved from ivory; she has the profile of a Botticelli angel.
She is unaware of the camera, a hand shading eyes Sutton knows are blue.
She seems so hopeful, Sutton thinks, smiling at the photo. Hopeful, as if a new world awaits her.
It does. Oh, it does.
Sutton traces the outline of the young woman’s jaw, her fingers barely touching the screen. This girl, this goddess, hers as surely as if she reached out into the heavens and stamped her from a cloud.
No one needs to know. This is her secret. And she’ll take it to the grave.
“Hello, Josie.”
* * * * *