Dorothy sat back on her heels and let the closet door rest against her shoulder.
Right about what?
Her fingers wanted to open everything there on the nursery floor, but the instinct that had kept her alive through widowhood and two children and thirty years of surviving what could not be fixed told her no. Not here. Not in a house with listening walls.
She put the papers back into the envelope, slid it inside her jacket, restacked the blankets exactly as she had found them, and turned off the nursery light.
She drove to the public library parking lot on Maple Street because it was lit, nearly empty, and nobody who mattered ever looked twice at a woman reading papers in her car.
Under a humming streetlamp, Dorothy opened the letter.
Mom,
I know how this looks. A pregnant woman convinced everyone is lying to her. Grant says I’m hormonal. Laurel says triplets have made me paranoid. But I am not paranoid.
I found the texts.
I found the second phone.
He has been with her for at least two years.
Dorothy had to stop reading. Her hands shook so hard the pages rustled like leaves.
She forced herself to continue.