Rose did. Billy started to struggle but in karate I’d learned to grip well. I’d spent months developing forearm and finger strength, so he had no chance of getting free. But he was twisting and kicking. I felt very uncertain. “How long has it been—”

“Nearly there.” Rose was looking at her watch.

“Now?” I said.

Rose shook her head.

It didn’t take long before he stopped twisting.

Rose kept time on her watch. I felt reassured by that. Rose wouldn’t let me do anything bad to Billy. And yet it felt like an eternity before she gave the nod to release him.

As soon as he rose to the surface of the water, I knew something was very wrong. I hooked my arms around his shoulders and lifted his head out of the water. “Billy?” I gently slapped his face. “Come on, Billy. Wake up.”

But Billy didn’t wake up. He didn’t turn his head to suck in a breath or cough and splutter or gasp for air.

I dragged him from the water. He was heavy but I got him to the shore and rolled him onto his side. When he still didn’t breathe, I tried to administer CPR. I’d read a book about how to do it, and we’d practiced it at school on plastic mannequins, but it was harder on an actual person. Rose just stood there, in shock. I breathed into Billy, again and again. After several minutes with no response, I sat back on my heels and looked at him. He was the most unnatural color—a slippery, whitish blue. His eyes were open, but lifeless.

That’s when we heard Mum.

“Girls?” She was looking around for us, and spotting us on the shore, she appeared relieved. Then she looked past us to where Billy lay. For a moment, she remained completely still. Then she ran. It was a sight to behold. Mum never ran anywhere.

“Billy!” she cried, dropping to her knees beside him. She fumbled at his neck, presumably trying to feel for a pulse. “Billy. Come on. Come on, Billy. What happened?”

Rose and I remained silent, as Mum herself tried to breathe life into Billy. She continued for what felt like hours, only pausing to swear under her breath and, once, to lift her head and say what sounded like a quick prayer, which was odd as I’d never seen Mum pray before. When she finally spun around, her face was streaked with tears and dirt. “What happened? Someone tell me.”

“I … I was trying to help him stay underwater longer than me,” I stammered. “I must have held him for too long.”

“You held him under?” Mum stared at me. “Why would you do that, Fern?”

I glanced at Rose. Mum followed my gaze. Something funny happened to her eyes. “Did Rose tell you to?”

Somehow, I understood the danger of answering that question. And so I didn’t.

“Oh, of course it’s my fault,” Rose said. “Nothing could be the fault of your precious Fern.”

Mum stood up and grabbed Rose so tightly that her feet lifted off the ground. “Billy is dead, Rose. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Rose said evenly. “I understand.”

“And now you’ve implicated your sister!”

“You’ve always hated me,” Rose shouted, crying now. “You’ve only ever loved Fern. Everyone loves Fern!”

Mum let go of Rose and lifted a hand to Rose’s face before hesitating and dropping it down.

“I don’t hate you, Rose. But it does feel like you’ve spent your life trying to make me prove I love you. And now, a boy is dead!”

Mum looked down at Billy’s lifeless body, then up again, meeting Rose’s gaze.

“If you want to prove that you love me,” Rose said, “then this is your chance.”

Midafternoon, Rose goes to Target to get the baby some smaller clothes. The moment she is gone, I move quickly.

The hospital is quiet, apart from a few mewling, newborn cries. I struggle into my rainbow dress, one of many souvenirs of the bizarre brand of love Rose has for me, and I lift the baby out of her crib. She is warm and feather light. I hook my bag over my shoulder and cradle her against my chest. It’s lovely how she seems to fit into the space perfectly, like she was made for this space. Perhaps she was.

It’s funny, she doesn’t look like an Alice to me, I realize. More like a Daisy or Lily or Poppy. Or Willow? There’s something about the strength of it that I like. Yes, Willow. That’s her name.

It is so easy to get out of the hospital that I don’t feel like I am “breaking out” at all. I skulk past reception and out into the street, covering Willow’s face with the blanket as we walk past the smokers. There is a taxi idling there, having just let an elderly man and woman out, which is perfect. I may not be the best mother for my baby. But I am becoming more and more certain with each passing moment that Rose isn’t either.

* * *

I feed Willow in the taxi and she falls into an openmouthed sleep. I have nothing other than my handbag. No nappies. No clothes. At least I have milk, and judging by how sore my breasts are, more milk is coming in. All in all, it could be worse.

When we pull up, I half expect Rose to be standing there, her faux concern pasted onto her face, ready to launch into a speech about how this kind of behavior is exactly why I can’t be a mother to this baby. Maybe she’s right. Still, I’m delighted to find that she isn’t here. For once, it seems, I’m one step ahead of Rose.

I ask the driver to let us out at the back of the library. My plan is ill thought out at best. I’m not even sure it is a plan. All I know is that I have to call Wally. I have to tell him he is the father of my baby. Even if he is upset with me for not telling him, he will surely help me figure out the right thing to do. I know now that the right thing is not to leave my baby in Rose’s care.

I let myself into the library through the back door. It’s quiet inside, so I manage to make my way down the muted, carpeted hallway without being noticed. Through the opaque glass window, I can see people moving about in the staff room, and I hear Trevor’s high-pitched, irritating laugh. I can’t chance going across the library to the secret cupboard so instead go through the vestibule and into the bathrooms. Inside, I enter a stall and sit on the closed toilet, resting Willow on my knees while I retrieve my phone. I have 15 percent battery left, which is astonishing to see—normally, I don’t let it get below 90 percent, but I didn’t have my phone charger at the hospital. Still, 15 percent is all I need. I search for Wally’s number and that’s when I notice. No service.