Across the room, Grant’s mother, Laurel Ashford, stood in a navy suit with pearls at her throat, speaking quietly to two women Dorothy recognized from the country club. She did not come over. She did not offer comfort. She merely watched Dorothy with the measured stillness of someone preserving information for later use.
That night Dorothy stayed in the guest room at Birchwood Lane, the house Colleen had once described as “too big for two adults but exactly right for chaos.” The nursery was at the end of the upstairs hall, painted a soft sunset yellow Colleen had chosen because she wanted the babies to wake each morning inside something warm.
The house was full of reminders. Colleen’s mug in the drying rack. Colleen’s prenatal vitamins on the kitchen counter. A cardigan draped over the back of a chair. Life paused mid-sentence.
Just after midnight, Dorothy sat upright in bed when she heard a voice through the baby monitor.
It was not the nanny’s voice. The hospital had sent home a temporary night nurse for the first week, and Dorothy already knew her sound.
This voice was younger. Silkier. Familiar in a way Dorothy hated instantly.