Heather(94)

And now. Now she’s ruined a woman’s life. Her children’s lives.

Another text from Jane when she hangs up:

I guess you’ve been busy. I just saw this. Another link to TikTok. For real, Jane? she thinks. This, now? But then her eyes focus on the title of the video. Cold Case, Mother Abandoned Infant: SOLVED!

The user is Rebecca Nixon.

She didn’t, she wouldn’t. “No,” she says out loud. “No no no no no.”

“What’s wrong?” Adrian asks. He pulls over, leans across the console. She hits play on the video, a wave of nausea already rising from her gut, sweat prickling at her hairline.

Rebecca claps her hands together. She’s got her nails done to match her lipstick. Crimson. The video has already gotten over 500,000 views.

Do I have one for you all today. A monster was walking free among us. A monster who murdered her newborn child. I have conclusive DNA evidence that a woman abandoned her baby to the elements and has been living as the perfect mother up in Westchester, New York.

This case has gone unsolved for over thirty years. And now, with the power of technology, I’ve blown it wide open. The authorities made their arrest of the suspect this morning. I will be cooperating in any way I can to bring justice to this life lost too soon.



* * *



By the time she finishes watching the video it has ten thousand more views. Callie watches it again, and it’s got fifteen thousand more. Nixon didn’t give Annabelle’s name, but it’s been leaked in the comments. Callie had promised discretion and now the whole world knows.

The commenters are feverish, dogs snapping at the smell of blood. One of them posts Annabelle’s address. Another, a link to a local news article about her volunteer work. Even her daughter’s name, her husband’s bowling league, the daughter’s Instagram handle tagged in the comments. Callie hits report on the comments as fast as she can, even as she feels how futile it is. None of it can be undone.

She can’t breathe. She’s vaguely aware of Adrian’s hand on her back. A pack of motorcycles blow by them and she’s relieved for the noise, the way the sound outside the car feels exactly like the roar inside her head.

There’s nothing she can do. And everything is her fault. She should know better than anyone that control is always just an illusion. That the truth always seeps out, no matter what you do to keep it close.





Part III





BLAIR


Aunt Margot drives her to school. She hadn’t come over all week but Blair had been too afraid to ask her father where she was, what she had said. Was too afraid that it would mean this was their life now, that they would need to sever ties with anyone they had once loved.

And then she came down for breakfast and Margot was there in the kitchen, hugged her hard enough Blair felt it in her bones. She made Blair eat a bowl of cereal, toast for her father. Her hands were as fast and as busy as ever but there were purple circles under her eyes.

Blair’s phone chimes and she winces. An email. Someone put her email address on a Reddit forum. It was taken down but not before it was screenshotted, shared, pinged from inbox to inbox, reposted on new threads, in Instagram stories, in Reels and TikToks. The true-crimers send her inquiries, thinking nothing of asking her the most personal of questions: I read that it was your DNA profile that linked your mom to the baby. Is that true?? Hi! I’m interested in your mom’s case, how is she doing? Did any of you know?? Are your parents going to get divorced?? Will you maintain a relationship with her? Did you know her real name? And because she’s eighteen, even journalists are reaching out to her. No one has to ask her father for permission to speak to her, to try to get her on the record. Their inquiries are phrased a little more delicately—I want to understand this story from your perspective. It must be so difficult. I’d love to arrange a time to speak at your convenience.—but the essential thrust is the same. Turn yourself inside out for us. We’re all owed the truth. Hand it over.

Her family’s address has been posted and in the night someone wrote the words BABY KILLER in red paint on their driveway. Her father has covered it with a tarp until they can get it repaved. Blair has never seen anything like the look on his face when he came in. A little shake of his head at Blair and her brothers, which they understood—don’t tell her. When he sat at the kitchen table to swallow down the coffee and toast Aunt Margot forced on him, Blair was taken aback by the shock of gray hair that came through his brown overnight.



* * *



If she were to talk to any of these people, she would tell them the things that actually matter. How Blair’s youngest brother, Jake, came home yesterday with his left eye swollen shut. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it at first, but apparently some kid shot off his mouth about his mom going to jail and Jake shoved him against a wall. Things escalated from there. He’s been suspended for the rest of the week. Her other brother, Kyle isn’t eating, twelve years old and new hollows in his cheeks. None of them know how to talk to one another anymore, just pass one another silently like ghosts. Her father is on the phone all the time—with lawyers, friends, who knows who else—holding the phone in one hand, his other raking hard at his hair. She hears scraps of conversation that scare her. Temporary insanity? Postpartum psychosis? No? Would she be tried as a minor because—You really think she should take a plea? But she says—No. I don’t … I don’t know what to believe.