Chapter 3

Grant stepped into the hallway and pulled Olivia's door nearly shut behind him, but not before I saw his overnight bag against the wall.

"What are you doing here?" His voice dropped, the same warning tone he used when Lucy wandered near a private conversation.

I held up the printed order confirmation. "Getting her camera."

"I stayed to clean up. Olivia was exhausted." He shifted sideways to block the opening. Over his shoulder, his coat hung across a dining chair, and a white charging cord disappeared along the floor toward the bedroom. I wanted him to reach into his pocket and show me his car keys, wanted some ordinary detail to prove he had arrived that morning. His bare feet ended that hope before it fully formed.

Olivia's voice carried from inside. "Grant, where did you put the coffee?"

Grant did not turn. "Top cabinet, left of the stove." The words came too quickly for a guest who had only stayed once to stack plates.

I pushed the door wider. The apartment smelled of vanilla candles and stale frosting, and half-deflated balloons dragged their ribbons across the ceiling. On the coffee table, Lucy's camera sat open beside its torn packaging. Olivia appeared at the end of the hall in a robe, one hand braced beneath her belly, but I kept my eyes on the serial number beneath the camera body.

"I'm taking it home."

Grant reached the table first. "Olivia needs it. You are not barging into her apartment and upsetting her."

I placed my phone beside the camera, displaying the matching serial number, then threaded Lucy's bright strap through the side loop. When I lifted it, Grant caught the strap. The woven fabric pulled tight between us, biting across my fingers. For nine years, I had watched him loosen jar lids, fasten bicycle helmets, and carry sleeping Lucy upstairs with those hands. Now one of them was holding onto her birthday present for someone else.

The strap bit deeper. "Let go."

"Stop making a scene."

With my free hand, I started recording. The red timer appeared between our faces. "Then say it clearly. Tell the camera why Lucy's birthday gift belongs to Olivia."

His grip released at once. Behind him, Olivia drew a sharp breath, and embarrassment flashed across his face—not shame for taking the camera, but anger that I had made the choice visible. I put the camera in my bag and backed toward the door.

I shouldered the bag. "Ordinary help doesn't require lying to your daughter."

The entryway had gone quiet except for a balloon ribbon scraping the ceiling behind me. In the ceramic bowl beside the door, keys flashed under the hall light. One carried a white plastic tag printed GRANT. My chest tightened around the relief I had still been saving: perhaps the charger was spare, perhaps he had simply kicked off his shoes. A labeled key ended both excuses.

In my car, I found a fixed monthly transfer in our household account, one I had assumed covered Grant's storage unit. The recipient was O. Carter. I saved twelve months of statements, then called licensed investigator Evan Brooks, paid his retainer, and authorized only lawful public-record searches and documented observation.

At home, I opened our safe to collect my passport before Grant returned. A new white envelope rested on top of it.

The return address belonged to a prenatal DNA laboratory.