She was younger than I expected, maybe twenty-four, with pale brown hair always escaping the knot at the back of her head and a watchfulness that never fully left her face even when she smiled. Her son, Owen, had round cheeks and solemn eyes and the wobbling determination of a baby on the edge of toddlerhood. He gripped a stuffed fox by one ear and stared at me from Natalie’s shoulder as though deciding whether I counted as one of the safe people.
“This is Amanda,” Helena told her. “George’s wife.”
Natalie blinked.
“Wife?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m still getting used to it too.”
That made Helena snort softly despite herself, and the sound eased something in the room.
Over the next weeks I learned the small geography of each woman’s fear. Clare hated footsteps behind her and could not stand to be in rooms with only one exit. Helena slept with a folding knife under her mattress even after we installed a security system. Natalie checked Owen’s breathing three times every night. All of them startled when trucks slowed at the gate. All of them had a different relationship to silence. For some it meant peace. For others it meant waiting for the blow.