Chapter 3

That evening, the foundation's website updated with an announcement.

[Sutton Pages Children's Reading Foundation is hereby removing its director's name. Former director Ms. Rowan Sutton has terminated her partnership for personal reasons. Foundation affairs will be temporarily overseen by Sera Voss.]

I sat in the back of a cab, staring at that line.

For the first time, I didn't bother explaining that it wasn't "personal reasons."

I just moved my divorce consultation with the lawyer to the next morning.

I rented a small apartment near the hospital.

One bedroom, one bath. Nothing fancy.

When I moved, I only took my ID, my bank cards, and a few clothes.

I didn't even take the music box James had bought for the baby.

That afternoon, James finally got back from Alaska.

He didn't come to the hospital. He went straight to the townhouse on the Upper East Side.

Half an hour later, Marcus called. He'd already tracked down my address.

"Mr. Bishop wants to see you. He says you can bring your lawyer and meet him at the house."

I sat next to an unopened cardboard box, a deep ache cutting through my abdomen at the same time.

I pressed my hand against it without thinking.

"Tell him I'm not coming back."

"Mrs. Bishop, he just got home. He's not in a good place. You're making this harder than it needs to be."

"It's not my mess to fix."

Less than ten minutes after I hung up, the doorbell rang.

James stood outside, Marcus and a stylist behind him, several nicely wrapped boxes in his hands.

He was wearing the black coat he'd changed into after landing. He still had Alaska on him—that cold, sharp smell.

But the first thing he looked at when he walked in was my feet.

"The floor's cold. Why aren't you wearing socks?"

He frowned and started to take off his coat to wrap around me.

I stepped back. The coat landed on the arm of the sofa.

His hands stopped mid-air. His eyes moved from my pale face down to my oversized knit cardigan. His frown didn't let up.

"Did you go to the hospital?"

"I did."

"What did the doctor say?"

"He told me to rest."

I wasn't lying.

I just didn't tell him that the rest the doctor meant was post-loss recovery.

"Why didn't you have the doctor send the report to Marcus?"

"Because it's MY medical record."

"Rowan, I'm just worried about you and the baby."

I looked up at him.

"You weren't this worried when I called you seventeen times."

His face stiffened for a second.

"I told you, I didn't know how serious it was. And last week you also—"

"So this time, you chose not to believe me."

His voice dropped. "I never said I didn't believe you."

"I just figured someone was home. The housekeeper, the driver. You'd be fine."

Except the driver had been sent to deliver Sera's camera gear, and the housekeeper had taken the day off.

I looked at him and didn't bother explaining.

He was still trying to find a version of that night he could live with.

But that night didn't need a version anymore.

Marcus handed me a photo.

In it, a powder-blue crib sat in the room next to the master bedroom, a mobile I'd picked out five years ago hanging above it.

"The crib's already here," James said.

"The color and size are what you picked. If you don't like the rest, we can swap it out."

I didn't take the photo.

"Send it back."

"Why?"

"I don't need it."

He took that as me being emotional.

"If you don't like it now, just leave it for later. Once the baby's here, you'll use it."

My fingers curled tighter inside my sleeve.

He still thought the baby was fine.

He still thought that as long as the room, the crib, and the gifts were ready, those seventeen unanswered calls could just be written off as a regular fight.

I didn't correct him.

Not to punish him. Not to watch him humiliate himself in front of everyone.

I just suddenly felt like I didn't owe him the truth he'd created with his own hands.