Chapter 1

The day I learned our last embryo had implanted, I watched my husband give our dead daughter's room and name to the woman carrying his child.

At 9:17 that morning, the doctor slid the blood test results across her desk.

"Your numbers look good, Ava. You're pregnant."

I stared at the positive result for a long time without saying a word.

This was our last embryo.

It was also the first time since eleven-month-old Lily died from her illness that I had let myself believe I might bring another baby home alive.

The doctor asked if I wanted to call Ethan.

"No." I tucked the report into my purse. "I want to tell him in person."

On my way out of the clinic, I bought a pair of white baby socks from the gift shop downstairs.

Lily had once worn socks that small.

On her last night in the hospital, Ethan had slipped them over his hands and made them dance for her. She had been too weak to smile, but her eyes had followed him the whole time.

I texted Ethan.

"Can you come home early tonight? I have something I want to show you."

He replied three minutes later.

"Can't. I'm at the lake."

"You're going today too?"

"Ava, it's Sunday."

Every Sunday, Ethan drove to the lakeside cottage my father had left me.

He said I was not ready to step back into the room where Lily had once slept, so he dusted it for us, trimmed her memorial tree, and spent a little time with her there.

For two years, I had never doubted him.

At 11:42 a.m., the property manager sent me a photograph from a routine inspection of the front door lock.

A pregnant woman in a beige dress stood outside the cottage.

She was holding a silver key.

LILY was engraved on the end.

That key had been locked inside my daughter's memory box.

I asked the manager to email the original photograph to my private account and not contact any of the other authorized users yet.

Then I turned off family location sharing and drove to the lake.

The nursery curtains had not been fully closed.

Through the window, I saw Ethan kneeling on the floor with a paintbrush.

Lily's blue handprints were already half buried beneath a coat of cream paint.

The woman stood behind him.

Ethan set down the brush and pressed a hand to the curve of her stomach.

The baby moved.

He smiled.

Two years ago, when Lily first kicked inside me, he had smiled exactly the same way.

"Three months to go," the woman said. "When are you going to tell Ava?"

"When she's a little more stable."

"She'll never be stable. Every time someone mentions Lily, she acts like the whole world is ending."

Ethan did not defend me.

He only looked at the wall turning white beneath his brush.

"She won't come here. Just settle in and stop worrying."

The woman pulled a wooden name plaque from one of the boxes.

LILY COLE.

"Are we really keeping the name?" she asked.

Ethan stroked her belly.

"There's no reason to change it. This time, Lily will grow up in this room."

I took out my phone, called Ethan, and pressed Record.

Inside the cottage, he put a finger to his lips, warning the woman to stay quiet.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"At the lake. I just replaced the ribbon on Lily's tree."

"Are you there alone?"

"Of course." His voice was as gentle as ever. "Why?"

I stared at his hand on another woman's stomach.

"No reason. Tell Lily I miss her today too."

Ethan paused for two seconds.

"I will."

After we hung up, I saved the recording and took pictures of the name plaque and the half-painted handprints.

I did not go inside.

I returned to my car and asked the property manager to export the door access records for the past year.

There were fifty-two entries.

Every one of them was on a Sunday.

Every time, Natalie Hayes unlocked the door first. Ethan arrived seven to fifteen minutes later.

For an entire year, he had not come here once to spend time with Lily.

He had only used her name to visit another home.