Lilydale is Eden.

The cloisonné pineapple burns when I hear these tales.

Three hours into my mission, I’m exhausted inside and out. I decide not to venture inside the police department to reintroduce myself to Amory Mountain, this time as the Gazette’s newest reporter. Maybe this pregnancy is taking its toll, but I simply lack the energy. I need to get the lunch meat into the refrigerator anyway.

A glance at my watch tells me it’s nearly six. Deck is likely frustrated, already home and having discovered he has to fend for himself for supper. If I hurry, I can whip up some leftovers and give him a quick shoulder rub before I head off to cover my first Lilydale story. I find myself humming as I make my way home and then smile when I remember that’s how I left late this morning: humming.

I even wave at Clan the Brody Bear and Catherine the Migrant Mother when I see them pull out of their driveway. I have yet to see Catherine smile, but Clan gives me a big grin and a salute.

“Deck?” I call when I step inside our house, admiring the trimmed bushes on my way in. “Sorry about dinner not being ready, honey. But I think you’ll be happy to hear what I’ve been up to today.”

The house’s silence is heavy. Not even Slow Henry greets me.

Gritty eyes. Paste in mouth. Agony.

Blink.

The lemon-yellow room. Nothing’s changed.

The light.

I tug out my arm—is it moving more easily?—and wipe crust from my eyes. Yes, the light filtering through the curtains is different. It’s later in the day. The heat is still intense, though, if anything hotter than before. I am being cooked alive.

The smell of sour and blood turns my stomach. I lift the sheets—I can definitely move more easily now—and spot blood between my legs. I press on the sanitary pad that’s been secured to my underwear. It’s warm and engorged. Soon it will leak onto the white sheets. My breasts are already overflowing, yellowish milk trickling down their sides.

I am Joan Harken. I am a reporter. My baby is gone.

The beat is back, bracing. I welcome it. It reminds me of my mission. Get out of this bed and find my child. It doesn’t matter what room this is or who put me here. It makes no difference what’s happened to me at all. All that counts is that I hold my infant, feed him, release the agonizing pressure on my breasts, smell his hair, count his fingers and toes.

A sob expands in my throat, but I swallow it.

You didn’t scream. Good job.

An oven-heated breeze flutters the curtains and brings with it the muted sound of voices. Laughter? I lift my head and hold my breath, listening for a baby’s cry. I don’t hear it. For the first time, though, I notice this room has three doors.

A closet.

A bathroom.

An exit.

I know this with certainty, even though I can’t grasp anything else about the lemon-colored room. I will crawl to the bathroom. Clean myself. Pray for clothes. Because something is telling me that I must appear sane and composed.

It’s my only chance.

CHAPTER 10

“Deck?”

I stroll through to the backyard. Maybe he’s grilling, though I haven’t smelled it. “Honey?”

Nothing. I peek into the kitchen and spot his note on the fridge, affixed with a Schmidt Insurance magnet shaped like a house, the logo “We’re Family” above Deck’s contact information.

Heard you’d be working tonight, it reads. Going to an evening meeting with Dad.

I remove the magnet and crumple the note, admiring the fridge again. It’s so sleek and modern. I put away the groceries before pouring a glass of milk and making myself a tuna salad sandwich, giving Slow Henry—who’s been tomcatting somewhere but shows up once I open the tuna can—the leftovers plus fresh water. Thank god the pregnancy hasn’t affected my appetite. No morning, afternoon, or evening sickness for me.

Once I clean up the kitchen, I’m overcome by the craving for a cigarette.

Ursula sneaked a pack and her favorite lighter into my purse the day I told her I was moving. “Your Lilydale survival kit,” she called it.

We were out for lunch at the Dayton’s Sky Room in downtown Minneapolis. The clatter of forks and knives on china provided a pleasant percussion as we were led to our table, the smell of fresh-baked popovers and roasting meat making my mouth water. Ursula had wanted to dine at the Men’s Oak Grill, which we could technically now visit without a male chaperone, but the single time I ate there with Deck, I found its dark wood paneling and enormous stone fireplace suffocating. The Dayton’s Sky Room was my preferred lunch restaurant, the perfect blend of fancy and welcoming.

I told her about moving to Lilydale as soon as we were seated. She about swallowed her own tongue and then immediately tried to talk me out of it.

“If you have that kid there,” she said, pointing at my belly, “you’ll never leave. That’s how small towns work. They trap you, making you pop out one kid after another until the day you die.”

I flushed. “I’m not a breeder cow!”

Ursula tapped a cigarette out of the pack and drew it to her lips. “Really? I seem to remember someone hating kids in college, swearing she’d never have one.”

I stared out the window to the ground twelve stories below. People flowed like quicksilver across the streets. I loved Minneapolis. It had a hundred good restaurants, the lakes, shopping, just enough to keep a person busy without overwhelming them. “I wish Libby was here.”

Ursula’s mouth grew tight. She snapped open the rhinestone-encased lighter and spun the wheel, staring into the flame as she inhaled. “Me too.”

“Remember that great Halloween party? Where you dressed up like Eleanor Roosevelt?”

She tossed me the oddest look. I kept the smile perched on my face. The party was one of my favorite memories. I had a framed photo from the evening on my desk at the Star. It featured me, Ursula, and Libby dressed for Halloween.

Libby, wearing a bomber jacket and flight goggles, was supposed to be Amelia Earhart. Ursula camouflaged herself to resemble a prim Eleanor Roosevelt complete with wavy hair and a floral dress. I was supposed to be Natalie Wood as Marjorie Morningstar but ended up looking like me wearing more makeup. Only one person guessed who I was impersonating, but it didn’t matter because that evening, the three of us laughed until our bellies ached, an emotion perfectly captured in the photograph: three young women tumbled into each other, bright-eyed and open-mouthed, the world at our feet.

“I remember that night,” she said, the words sounding like sand in her mouth.

My smile slipped. Ursula was in a mood. I couldn’t account for it.

“Hillbillies,” she murmured, glaring outside.

At first I thought she meant the tiny people streaming below, but then she continued. “Each and every person in Lilydale is a hillbilly, I guarantee it. It’s a good thing you’re not moving. The best thing.” She lowered her voice to a mock whisper. “They’re probably rat-fucking Nixon supporters.”

I threw my head back and laughed. That’s why she was acting so odd. She didn’t want me to move.

Smiling a satisfied grin, Ursula held out the cigarette pack. “Now, show me you’re your own woman and have a smoke.”

She ended up giving me the whole pack along with her rhinestone lighter, and now seems like the perfect time to crack them both out. I reach under the kitchen sink, where I hid them, and make my way to the back steps. I sit down and light the cigarette, eyes closing in ecstasy as I draw in the silky smoke, enjoying the sweet relaxation in my shoulders.