“That doesn’t mean she’s alive.”

“The brain can do a lot of things,” Olive said, “but it can’t distinguish between what’s really happening, and what you’re imagining. That’s why scary movies scare you and why you cry at Nicholas Sparks books.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“You talk like a teacher,” Wren said.

“Guilty as charged,” Olive said. “I used to teach at the college.”

She considered the woman who’d insisted she did not belong here. Olive could have said the same. The Center was all about reproductive choices, and she didn’t have any of those left. But she would never have jeopardized Wren’s life by throwing open the closet door to save her own skin.

“If I die,” Wren murmured, “they’ll make a shrine at school.”

Olive turned at the sound of her voice.

“They’ll put flowers underneath my locker. And posters saying REST IN PEACE, and photos of me doing stupid things, like with my face painted for Spirit Day or dressed like Supergirl for Halloween. It happened last year, with a girl who died of leukemia,” Wren said softly. “All these people pretending they miss me, when they never even knew me.”

Olive reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You’re not going to die,” she said.

As if to punctuate her promise, Wren’s phone buzzed.

—

R U STILL SAFE? Hugh texted.

Those three dots appeared, scrolling, and he let out the breath he was holding.

There was someone yelling & then a thud & now it’s quiet.

He wondered how many women were in there, other than his daughter and his sister.

He knew his responsibility was to every hostage inside the Center, but the truth was, he was thinking only of Bex and Wren.

Aunt Bex? he typed.

??? don’t know.

When he was a kid, and he’d gone somewhere after school, Bex used to insist that he call her when he arrived. He hated it—it made him feel like he was the biggest loser. It wasn’t until he had Wren, and worried about her every minute she wasn’t with him, that he understood why his sister had been so vigilant. The reason you hold on to someone too tightly isn’t always to protect them—sometimes it’s to protect yourself.

Hugh stared down at his phone, as if he could will Wren courage, strength, hope. Stay calm, he texted.

. . .

. . .

Daddy, Wren wrote, I’m scared.

She had not called him Daddy for a long time.

When Wren was little, Hugh had come upstairs to find her scrubbing her face with lemons, trying to get rid of her freckles. I have spots, she had said. I’m ugly.

You’re beautiful, he’d told her, and those are constellations.

The truth was, she was his universe.

Parenthood was like awakening to find a soap bubble in the cup of your palm, and being told you had to carry it while you parachuted from a dizzying height, climbed a mountain range, battled on the front lines. All you wanted to do was tuck it away, safe from natural disasters and violence and prejudice and sarcasm, but that was not an option. You lived in daily fear of watching it burst, of breaking it yourself. Somehow you knew that if it disappeared, you would, too.

He wondered if the women who’d come to the Center thought differently.

Then, reconsidering, he imagined it was exactly what they thought.

I’m here, he texted Wren, and he hoped that would be enough.

—

BETH STARED AT THE STRANGE man in her room. A cop. Not outside the door, but inside it, and watching her. It was creepy as fuck. As if it weren’t bad enough that she was handcuffed to the bed rail.

She wanted her father. She wished she could text him, apologize, cry, beg, but her phone had been taken away by the police. Was he in the hospital cafeteria, or taking a walk, or just sitting in his car and replaying the horrible things they had said to each other? Beth knew that if she could see his face, talk to him directly, she could make him see that nothing had changed; that she still needed him as much as, if not more than, before. She would spend a month in church with him, if he wanted, atoning for her sins. She would do anything to go back to the way it had been.

When the door opened, she turned, hope swelling. But she hadn’t conjured her father at all. It was a strange man in a suit, with a shock of dark hair. He was followed by a stenographer, who set up a machine in the corner near the radiator.

“Hello, Beth,” he said. “I’m Assistant District Attorney Willie Cork. How are you doing?”

She looked from this man to the cop, and then her eyes settled on the stenographer, a woman. When she was little and had to go pee, her father used to ask a woman to take her into the ladies’ room. He used to say if she ever felt like she needed help, she should find someone who looked like a good mother.

Which, she realized with a shock, disqualified Beth herself.

Maybe he was her lawyer. She had asked for one. She wasn’t quite sure how that worked. “Hello,” Beth said softly, and at that moment, the door flew open again and a small tornado cycled in. She was tiny and Black and the air crackled around her.

“Your pasty manhood might get you a pass in just about everything in this country, Willie, but even you know better than this. You don’t get to talk to my client without representation present.”

“Such a warm welcome, Counselor,” the ADA drawled. “Guess you’ve missed me.”

“Willie, when it comes to you, a tiny bit goes a long way. Like arsenic. Or nuclear fallout.” She glanced down at the hospital bed. “My name is Mandy DuVille, I’m your public defender. You’re Beth, yes?”

Beth nodded.

“Okay, Beth. Do not talk to anyone unless I’m present, understand?” She faced the prosecutor. “Why are you even here? Don’t you have bigger things to do? Like passing a bogus voter ID law or gerrymandering the districts before your next election …”

“Officer Raymond here called me down to the scene, and rightly so,” Willie Cork said. “I have never seen anything so disturbing in all my years serving Lady Justice. We had an arrest warrant within the hour.”

Mandy slid a glance toward the cop at the door. “Nathan,” she greeted.

“Cuz,” he said.

The prosecutor handed Mandy a file. “Knock yourself out,” he said, and Beth’s lawyer opened the folder and began to read, her eyes flying back and forth.

“Self-abortion,” Mandy read. “Pills?” Her lawyer snapped the folder shut and focused her gaze on Beth’s handcuffed wrist, awkwardly balanced on the rail. “She’s a child. Maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Is that really necessary?” she asked Willie.

“This woman is a murderer,” the prosecutor said.

“Alleged murderer.”

Beth’s eyes darted from person to person. It was like they were playing tennis, and she was the ball being volleyed back and forth. She shifted, jingling the chain on her wrist. “I didn’t—”

“Stop talking,” Mandy interrupted loudly, holding up her palm. “Nathan,” she asked, “can I please lean over and whisper to my client for a moment of confidentiality?”

“That’s Officer Raymond to you,” Nathan said, “and no. You’ll stay two feet away from the defendant at all times.”

The public defender rolled her eyes. “Beth, I need you to tell me if you understand what the state is saying you did. Not whether or not you actually did it.”

Beth blinked at Mandy, utterly confused.

“Okay. I’m going to enter a not guilty plea on your behalf, and waive the bail argument until you’re released from here and transported to the prison.”

Beth’s jaw dropped. “Prison?”

Just then, the door to the room opened and a hospital security guard crammed himself inside, followed by a bailiff who was easily seventy and another man who changed the entire tone in the room. Immediately, both lawyers stood a little straighter. The cop put his hand on his weapon and wedged himself between Beth and the judge; the other security guard pushed Mandy further away from Beth to clear a path. “She’s not Charlie Manson,” Mandy murmured.

“All rise,” the bailiff announced, and Beth looked down at her legs in the hospital bed. “The Honorable Judge Pinot of the Third Circuit Judicial District Court.”

The prosecutor offered Pinot an oily smile. “Your Honor,” he said. “Did I hear that you shot under eighty last week at the country club?”

“None of your damn business, Cork,” the judge muttered. “I hate hospital arraignments.” He stared down at the only chair in the room, which was occupied by the stenographer. “Is there not another seat?”

“There isn’t much room in here,” the bailiff said.

“Maybe we make some by getting rid of what’s extraneous. Starting with you.”

“But, Your Honor,” the bailiff insisted. “I’m here to protect you.”

Beth wondered what they thought she was going to be able to do, chained to the hospital bed. The hospital security guard got a swivel chair from somewhere and crammed it into the room, which pushed Mandy even further away from Beth.

“For the love of all that’s holy,” Judge Pinot said, “are we ready?”