Melinda started sobbing quietly.
The baby fussed, sensing the room had changed. She reached for him at once, lifting him carefully from the stroller. He settled against her shoulder, his small hand patting her collarbone.
Despite everything, she held him with real tenderness.
That complicated the shape of my anger.
It would have been easier if she were only cruel. Easier if Connor were only a villain and Melinda only a thief. But life had never been that clean.
Connor had built a story for both of us. Perhaps for all three of us.
He had told me I was broken.
He had told Melinda I had given up.
He had told himself he deserved whatever he wanted.
“Kirsten,” Melinda whispered, rocking the baby gently, “I swear I didn’t understand what he had done until after I was pregnant.”
