“My mother? What about her?”

“We have the autopsy report. It shows two hypodermic injection sites just under your mother’s hairline. This indicates foul play.”

“Foul play?”

“It indicates someone may have poisoned your mother. But there were no traces of poison in your mother’s blood.”

“That’s strange.”

“Yes, it had us a little baffled too until you mentioned your sister was a diabetic. You see, one trend we’ve started seeing a bit of in nursing homes is insulin overdosing. It’s popular because in general insulin degrades quickly in a body. With your sister being a diabetic, she would obviously have access to insulin and be experienced in giving injections. In addition to this, we found a bracelet, identical to yours but with a rose on it, in your mother’s room. And given the fact that their relationship was troubled, and your mother was trying to convince you not to give her your baby … that’s a motive.”

I blink. “You think Rose murdered Mum?”

She shrugs. “I’d say it’s not looking good for her.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t believe it.”

But maybe I do believe it. I think about the way Rose felt about Mum. Even the mention of her name was enough to infuriate her. And Rose had done so many things that I’d never thought she would do. Go behind my back with Wally. Lie about Owen. Accuse me of being dangerous. Take my baby from me.

“It’s a lot of compelling evidence. Enough to rule your mother’s death a murder. And enough that your sister is the prime suspect.”

I stare at her. I’m about to ask where Rose is, but halfway through I realize it’s the wrong question. I have a new priority now. A more important question.

“Willow,” I say. “Where is Willow?”

I lie on my hospital bed and stare at the closed door. It’s all too much to take in.

Detective Brookes told me that Rose will be formally charged and then most likely remanded in custody until trial. The idea makes me nervous. Rose won’t be happy about any of that.

On her way out, Detective Brookes told me that she would find Willow, but that was twenty minutes ago, and I’ve heard nothing since. She told me to stay in my room, so they can find me easily, but it is torture. I’m not in any trouble for taking Willow, Detective Brookes stressed. She is my baby; I’m free to take her anywhere I want. I like the sound of that, even if I’m not sure I trust it.

Finally, there is a knock at the door. I lurch upright as the door opens. It’s not Willow.

“Wally?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose and smiles. He’s dressed in the first outfit I ever saw him in—jeans, the flannelette shirt, the bobble hat.

“How did you find me?” I ask as he comes in. He closes the door behind him and takes a seat beside my bed.

“Carmel called me, eventually. She said you would be here. I’d been back to maternity, but you weren’t there and no one would give me any information. It’s taken me hours to find you.”

I take a minute to marvel at this. Wally, looking all over the hospital … for me.

“Wally, I have to tell you something,” I say, when I realize I can’t wait a moment longer to tell him.

His gaze slides from over my shoulder to meet my eye. It calms me. “What is it?”

“The baby is yours,” I tell him.

He closes his eyes and drops his chin to his chest. He is silent for so long I wonder if he hasn’t heard me. But when he lifts his head, his face is covered in tears.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to. I should have. But I didn’t think I was capable of raising a baby … you know, after what happened with Billy. And you … you said you didn’t want a baby.”

“I did say that, didn’t I? I don’t know why. I guess because it was a theoretical answer. I enjoy answering theoretical questions. But if you’d told me you wanted a baby … or that you were pregnant … I promise you would have got a very different answer.”

“I would?”

He nods. I feel something, actually feel it, shift inside my chest. I’m about to ask what the answer would have been when someone comes to the door.

“Knock, knock?”

A woman in black slacks and a pale blue blouse is standing there. She’s wearing black orthopedic sneakers. “I apologize for interrupting. My name is Nadine Riley—I’m an administrator here. I understand your daughter has been up in our pediatric unit in the care of your sister, but that your sister has been unexpectedly … called away?”

“That’s right,” I say.

“I see, well, as your adoption paperwork hasn’t been finalized, the hospital policy is to keep the baby here in the room with you. I’m told you will be moving back to the maternity ward shortly, but in the meantime, one of the nurses is bringing your daughter here to you.… Ah, here they are now.”

I stop breathing. Nadine Riley moves to the side and a young nurse enters the room, pushing a crib on wheels. My hands begin to shake. I see the top of her head through the clear plastic crib. Someone has removed her little hat.

“I have a little girl here who would like to see her mother,” the nurse says, strolling into the room smiling widely. She is the perky sort of nurse—young and blond, with a high ponytail, white teeth, and fresh, clean skin. She parks the crib beside my bed and applies the brake before reaching for her. Neither Wally nor I speak, or even move. My heart beats so fast and hard I contemplate whether I might be having a heart attack.

“Ooh, is this Dad?” the nurse says, gesturing to Wally. “Of course it is, silly me, she’s got your hair. She really is just a darling little thing. Who wants to take her?”

She gathers her up with the ease of someone who spends much time around newborns, and then glances from me to Wally, as if expecting a tussle. She doesn’t get one. We are both too shell-shocked. Wally is so still I think he may have ceased to breathe.

“Give her to him,” I say finally. “He’s got some time to make up for.”

Wally remains frozen for just another second. Then he nods, visibly relaxes a little, and opens his arms.

Wally stays in the chair beside my bed for twenty-four hours. When he’s not tending to Willow or checking on me, he’s downloading parenting books onto his phone and reading them furiously. He introduces me to an app for my every parenting need—a tracker for feeds, sleep times, and nappy changes; a white-noise maker; a height and growth chart. Rather than feeling overwhelmed by this, I find the ritual of entering information into the different fields surprisingly soothing. I am hopeful that soon the new rituals and routines will become a new kind of normal.