Chapter 2

Sullivan didn't panic. He sent Leo up to his room, poured me a glass of ice water, and gave a weary, practiced sigh.

"They're Bridget's," Sullivan said calmly. "She dropped off the work files late last night. She spilled tea on her shoes, changed into her sneakers, and forgot her heels."

Bridget. Sullivan's colleague.

She had eaten at our table often enough that Leo had started calling her Aunt Bridget.

She always brought wine, complimented whatever I cooked, and asked about my shifts.

It was possible.

But I couldn't stop seeing those red heels in my son's hands.

At three o'clock that afternoon, a black sedan pulled into our driveway.

Sullivan walked inside first, stepping into the study to take a phone call, while Bridget walked around to the backyard.

She wore a cream wool coat and dark sunglasses, carrying a beautifully wrapped box tied with a silk ribbon.

"I hate the thought that a stupid pair of shoes caused trouble between you and Sullivan, Hollis,” Bridget said gently, offering me a polite, tight smile.

Out of sheer courtesy, I led her to the patio table.

The rosebushes I had planted last spring stood bare around the patio. A portable heater hummed beside the table.

Bridget set the heavy box on the stone table.

"It's for Leo," she said, resting her manicured hands on the ribbon. "A build-your-own Mars rover kit. Sullivan mentioned he'd been begging for this one."

I looked at the box. Three months ago, Leo had begged Sullivan for the same kit.

Sullivan had barely looked up from his phone before saying, "They all look the same to me."

But Bridget knew Leo wanted the red-and-black one. She even knew he preferred tracks to wheels.

"Sullivan talks to you about Leo's toys?" I asked, pouring tea into her cup without looking up.

Bridget gave a soft laugh. "Sullivan talks about both of you all the time."

It was a brilliant answer. On the surface, it sounded reassuring. Underneath, she was making sure I knew my husband shared the intimate details of our home with her every day.

"I honestly don't know how you manage those twelve-hour night shifts," Bridget added, sipping her tea. "Leo must miss you terribly on Thursdays."

My hand paused over the teapot.

"Sullivan told you which nights I work?" I asked.

"He worries about how much pressure you're under," she replied smoothly. "Leo is remarkably independent for eleven. Children of working mothers often grow up faster."

The soft sting hit its mark, aimed directly at my maternal guilt. Bridget knew I worked Thursdays. She knew I wasn't home.

"The shoes aren't what concern me, Bridget," I said, leaning back. "Leo hiding them is."

Bridget's hand, lifted halfway to her lips with her teacup, went still. She set the cup down, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"What exactly did he tell you?" she asked.

I stared at her. Bridget hadn't asked why Leo was frightened; she wanted to know what he had told me.

Before Bridget could say more, the wooden garden gate clicked open.

Leo walked into the backyard, his school bag slung over one shoulder.

He stopped dead when he saw Bridget. His face lit up when he saw that toy.

But he hesitated. He looked at me with a wave of deep shame, as if waiting for my permission.

I knelt down beside my son. "It's okay, Leo. Your dad said you could have it."

Leo reached out, his fingers hovering an inch from the cardboard, his chest heaving.

He wanted the toy.

Suddenly, Leo looked from the box to my face, swallowing hard.

"Mom..." Leo asked, his voice trembling. "Did you know Aunt Bridget stays here when you work nights?"

At that time, Bridget's smile froze on her face.

Sullivan, who had just walked out onto the patio from his phone call, went completely still.

I looked up at my husband, then down at my son.

Silence settled over the patio.

Leo's fingers tightened around the edge of the rover box.

Bridget was the first to move.

"I should probably get going," she said. "Thank you for the tea, Hollis."

Sullivan took a step toward her. "Bridget—"

"It's fine." She picked up her purse. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She touched his arm as she passed him.

Briefly. Naturally. As if she had done it a hundred times before.

And that was when I knew this wasn't a misunderstanding.

My son must know something.