“And you came all the way from London?”

He looks confused. “London? No, I came from Brunswick.”

“Oh,” I say. “When did you get back from London?”

“I haven’t been in London, Fern.”

“Of course you have. You’ve been living there for the past year.”

Now he gives me a meaningful look. “I was going to ask what you’re doing in here, but clearly you are mad.” He chuckles. “Why’d you think I was in London?”

“You haven’t been living in London?”

“No. Why would … wait. Did Rose tell you this?”

“Yes. She said you have been working on a project over there. She went over to visit you last year.”

He laughs, but it is one of those nervous laughs. “Fern, for the last year I’ve been living on the other side of town. A few months back, I actually came and visited you a couple of times at the library. I didn’t want to go to your flat as I thought that might get you in trouble with Rose. When you didn’t get back to me, I assumed Rose had turned you against me and I gave up.”

“I remember a mystery visitor coming to the library. That was you?”

He nods. It’s too strange. Owen glances over his shoulder as if afraid Rose is going to burst in. I also feel afraid of that.

“What did Rose say when she called you?”

“She said you had had a baby,” he says, perching on the side of the bed. “And that it was your sincerest wish that she and I raise it together. My instinct was to stay away from her madness, but as it involved you, I had to come and see what was going on.”

“But why would Rose say you were in London?”

He sighs. “Why does Rose do anything? Because of how it reflects on her.”

“What do you mean?”

He exhales and runs a hand through his new stylish hair. “I left her. Things hadn’t been good between us for years, Fern. She was so changeable—happy one minute, enraged the next. I couldn’t live like that. I suggested counseling, but she wasn’t interested. It was all my fault. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“So you moved to Brunswick?”

He nods. “I can’t believe she told you I moved to London. But, then again, I can. She always has to own the narrative. She could never admit that someone left her.”

I take a minute to digest this. “What do you think is wrong with her, Owen?”

“I’ve spent a lot of this year in therapy trying to work that out. And I have to say, she possesses all the classic traits of a narcissist. Possibly even borderline personality disorder.”

“What kind of traits?”

“Her mind games. One minute she was sweet and kind, the next she was ridiculing me in front of our friends. If I became upset with her, she said I was too sensitive, it was all just a joke. If I gave an opinion that differed from hers, she didn’t speak to me for days. And her sense of grandiosity! She spent so much money. More than we had. She was forever quitting her job—or getting fired, I honestly don’t know which, but it never curbed her spending. I don’t think she’s held a job for longer than a year the whole time I’ve known her. At first, I thought she had bad luck, but then it just kept happening. I stopped asking her about it, because she would get furious if I brought it up.”

I think of the times she’s talked about going to work this past year. And I think about the number of times I’ve seen her in work clothes. They don’t match.

“She’s not well, Fernie. You can’t give her your baby.”

“I know.”

We sit for a moment in silence. I realize I have a lump in my throat. Owen’s face is more somber than I’ve ever seen it. He reaches forward and puts his hand on mine. It’s warm and strong. It’s not just bearable. It actually feels good.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” I say.

He shrugs. “I wish I could do more.”

I smile, even though I’m sad—and for the first time, I understand why people do that.

“I wish you could too,” I say.

Twenty minutes after Owen leaves, Detective Brookes comes to the door.

“May I come in?”

If she’s come to arrest me for kidnapping Willow, she won’t have to ask any such permissions soon. In jail, I imagine the police can come and go as they please. They won’t ask if I feel like stew or spaghetti for dinner, they’ll just hand me a meal. It’s possible, I realize, that I won’t go to jail. I might go to one of those places for the mentally impaired—One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest–style. Apparently, those places aren’t as bad as they once were. I read an article about it recently. Electroshock therapy is only used sparingly, and the facilities are geared toward rehabilitation. Still, I doubt babies are allowed to visit. That’s the most frightening part of this—not jail, or a disruption to my routine, not the smells or lights or alarms—it’s the fact that I might not see Willow again for a long, long time.

I wrap my arms around myself.

“Fern?” Detective Brookes says. “Are you all right?”

I shake my head and start to rock. There is another police officer with Detective Brookes now, this one in uniform. He remains at the doorway, while Detective Brookes slowly enters the room.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just need to have a word with you about something.”

“The kidnapping?”

“Fern, Willow is your daughter. I cannot arrest you for taking her to the library.”

I frown. “You can’t?”

“No.”

I am perplexed. “Then … why did the police come after me? Why did they take Willow?”

“My understanding is that your sister called to report you and your baby’s sudden departure from the hospital. This would have prompted a welfare check from the police. As you were distressed when they found you, a request for psych assessment would have been made, and I’m not privy to those. But there is no suggestion that you kidnapped your daughter, Fern.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I take a minute to process this.

“Then … why are you here?” I ask.

Detective Brookes takes a seat by the bed. “It’s to do with your mother.”