“How many people live here?”

  Her mama hesitated. “About a hundred,” she said as they neared the building. “Taured bought this place right around the time I got pregnant with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did he buy a prison?”

  “Oh.” She said it in a way that made Summer think she didn’t want to talk about it. “It fit his dream, I guess.” Lorraine turned into a parking spot next to the other cars. “When we were kids, he lived in a foster home up the street from my house. He was the only other kid on our street that was my age, so we kind of just had to play together. Anyway, this is what he’d talk about even way back then.”

  “Living in a women’s prison?”

  Her mother shot her a look that said she better shut up or else. “Creating a family of like-minded people.”

  Summer opened her mouth, her next words forming on her lips, when a door opened on the side of the building. She saw his boots first—gray—and then long legs followed. Gangly, her fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Eli, would have said. He was tall and lean like the cowboys in movies. He wore jeans, a black T-shirt and a smile spread so wide you couldn’t help but smile, too.

  “Oh my God, he still wears that damn outfit.” Her mother said it more to herself than to Summer, her fingers running underneath her eyes and then through her hair. She watched, interested, as her mother clapped her hands in delight and then jumped out of the car, sprinting toward him.

  There was a commotion outside as Summer scrambled to look out the back window.

  “Look at all this, Taured!” her mama said, holding him at arm’s length and gazing up into his face. “You did it!” He looked so pleased at her words that he hugged her again, lifting her feet off the ground.

  Mama walked slowly back to the car with him, never taking her eyes off his face as they spoke. It was like she was thirsty for him.

  Summer checked that her braid was neat, then pulled it over her shoulder. Then he was there at her door, opening it and bending down to smile at her. His face was mostly covered by a thick, black beard, but the skin around his nose and eyes was tan, like he spent all his time outside. There was a freckle on one earlobe, almost making it look like his ear was pierced. He held out his hand to assist her out of the car and she felt very la-di-da.

  “Summa, Summa, Summatime...” he said when she was standing in front of him. It was so hot, hotter even than California. He smelled nice and he held out his arms for a hug. She hugged him because she’d seen her mother do it and because she missed her dad.

  “You’re going to love it here,” he said, looking Summer in the eye. “We’re a family.”

  “Why do you have to live way out here with your family?” She kept her voice light and innocent so her mother wouldn’t chide her for it later.

  “Because the rest of the world gets in your head and tries to teach you its way of thinking. Bad men sold your dad the stuff that killed him, that’s how messed up the world is.”

  “Drugs,” she provided.

  “Yes. You’re a smart kid, just like your mom.” He tugged her braid and she smiled at him, and then her mother smiled at her. Normally, her mother would never let anyone call her a kid, but here was Taured breaking the rules, her mom grinning like she enjoyed it.

  “Let’s go check out your new digs,” he said, putting one arm around her shoulders and another around her mother’s. And then the man in the snakeskin boots led them into the Flatlands Women’s Correctional Facility, the place where her mother would be murdered.

  4

  Now

  Lorraine had been her mama’s name; she’d taken it when she’d left—or rather, when she’d escaped that place—shortening it to Rainy. She’d taken her hair, as well, but that had not been by choice. The Ives women had hair so deeply black it reached toward blue. It grew straight and thick like a horsetail and she hated it, but because it reminded her of her mother, she couldn’t bring herself to cut it. Grant was always touching it, running his fingers through the strands until her eyes rolled with pleasure. It was heavy, and the most she could do to get it out of her face was wear it in a braid, which hung between her shoulder blades like a sword.

  For breakfast, Rainy made fried eggs and toast. She lounged at the table in her robe, drinking her coffee and passing bits of crust to Shep, when Grant called.

  “What’s on the schedule for you today?”

  “Oh, you know, thought I’d fire up the gun and blow some metal.”

  “I love it when you talk welding to me, baby.”

  “You home tonight at the normal time?” She carried her plate to the sink, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. She heard his hesitation and knew what was coming.

  “Happy hour with the office.”

  She didn’t mind, but he acted like he was doing something wrong whenever he went somewhere without her. Rainy knew he felt like that because she’d moved here for him, leaving her own social life behind. But the truth was that she was glad to leave it; none of those relationships had meant what Grant meant to her. She listened to him as she watched the yolk of her egg spread like paint across her plate.

  “I figured since you had Viola’s baby shower tonight...”

  Shit. Rainy almost dropped the plate. She’d forgotten, even after Braithe’s reminder last night. She put everything in the sink and turned on the faucet, letting the water scramble the stains.

  “You forgot about it, didn’t you?” Grant’s voice was teasing, but the reality was there; she was forgetful, too lost in her art to keep in touch with the real world.

  “Yeah, I did. I better run to the store. So much for working today, huh?” She could hear the disappointment in her own voice. She was uncomfortably behind schedule on the hive—three weeks behind, if she were honest with herself.

  “Baby, this is how it’s going to go down, are you listening?”

  “Uh-huh.” If there was a phone cord to wind, Rainy would have wound it around her finger. She was familiar with this particular timber of his voice.

  “You’re going to wear that black dress I like—”

  “It’s a baby shower,” she reminded him.

  “You’re an artist, so you get to wear black. When you get there, you’re going to talk to Viola and Samantha—they’ll look for you, too, because they like you more than any of the others—”

  “That’s not true,” Rainy cut in again.

  “Hush, this is my story.”

  She stifled a laugh while Grant kept talking. “You’ll wander over to the drinks table and make yourself a double without anyone noticing, then, bravely, you’ll manage small talk with Tara, who will ask where I am even though she knows, then she’ll make a comment about your dress and how she’s not brave enough to break the rules of fashion to wear black to a baby shower.”

  Rainy lost it at this point, the laughter escaping her throat in ripples. That was exactly what Tara would do.

  “Braithe will, of course, rescue you. She’ll see what I see with the dress, and she’ll grab your arm and make you go with her to the drinks table.”

  She knew all this was true. Grant couldn’t have written a better script.

  “After a few shots with the Baby Tigers, you’ll be ready for the big rocking chair presentation—”

  Rainy groaned at this part. Shots with them wasn’t what she was groaning about, though; it was the rocking chair she’d made for Viola. Rainy loved making art; she just didn’t love being around for people’s reaction to it. The oohs and aahs, the questions that came about the process, she hated all of it. She didn’t want to talk about what she made.

  “Anxiety,” a therapist had once told her, “comes in all shapes and sizes.”

  “You’ll grin and bear it, and it won’t be as bad as you thought because Viola will be so, so happy. You made her a chair with your bare hands, like a beast.”

  They were both laughing now, Grant unable to continue. When they caught their breath, Rainy was the first to speak.

  “I love you, and I love that you can do that.”

  “S’why you keep me around, baby.”

  She got dressed, dreading her afternoon. The promise of a quiet workday forgotten, she resolved herself to another night of vapid social fanfare. There would be even more of them there tonight. Her only consolation was how much she liked Viola. Supporting her on her special night was easy; making small talk with twenty-plus women was not.

  * * *

  But instead of going to the store, she changed into a pair of coveralls and headed straight to her studio. Then, shivering, she turned on the gas fireplace, standing close to the blue-orange flames. She rubbed her thumb along the ridges of her necklace, stroking the same spot absently. There was something bothering her, something just out of reach.

  For the next few hours, she got lost in her work. When it was time to get ready for the party, she hastily threw together the ingredients for her mother’s couscous salad recipe and went to get dressed. Hopefully, no one would notice that she hadn’t brought the sparkling apple juice. She stared into her closet. Her options ranged from black to gray. Instead of the black, she chose a gray dress so fair it was almost heather, and dug out an earthy cardigan to throw over top. A for effort, she told herself, shrugging. The dress was expensive, but it looked snobby instead of stylish.

  Slipping her feet into orange Birkenstocks, she walked back and forth in front of the mirror, sizing herself up. She sent a text to Grant, telling him whoever got home last had to drag the garbage cans to the curb, and she ran for the truck.

  * * *

  Viola and Samantha lived in a ranch house halfway down Tiger Mountain. It took her ten minutes to pull up and another two to gain the courage to enter. Their three-bedroom house was ablaze with orange and cream balloons, dancing in the corners and around the fireplace where a gold-lettered sign was stretched from one side to the other: Baby Makes 3! Rainy swallowed a memory: balloons. Not orange and cream, but blue and yellow. Her head began to swim.

  “The sign is dumb, right? Baby makes three what?” Viola said, taking the bowl from Rainy and making a face. “I told them it was stupid, and they looked at me like I was being too emotional.”

  “You probably were.” Rainy didn’t have to check Viola’s face like she had to do with other people; Viola always got her jokes.

  “Anyway, you look great,” Viola said, eyeing her dress. “You look like a dove in an exotic bird shop.”

  Rainy didn’t have time to ask Vi what that meant because Samantha was walking toward them. Samantha—who Viola called Tata—was wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a black T-shirt on top of severely ripped jeans. The only thing missing tonight was the beanie, and she guessed Viola had something to do with that. Samantha was the stereotypical Pacific Northwest hipster with a hint of goth, and she wore it well.

  “How come Tata gets to wear jeans?” Rainy widened her eyes, letting her mouth fall open in jealousy.

  “Because Tata didn’t sign up for the Tiger Mountain Desperate Housewives’ Club.” Samantha smiled widely at Rainy, lifting her hand for a high five. As soon as Rainy’s hand met hers, she turned toward Viola. “They want you in the kitchen. It’s about the cake.”

  “For what? They can’t do anything themselves?” Both of Viola’s hands were pressed against her belly as she spoke.

  Rainy watched them bicker playfully for a minute, and then Samantha steered Viola toward the kitchen. A sharp burst of laughter issued from the next room, and then Tara’s tinkling voice calling over the noise: “Ladies, let’s get this party started!” All of a sudden, everyone was pushing into Viola and Samantha’s dining room, where the cake and presents were set up. There were at least thirty people there, half of whom she didn’t know. They’d called this a “sprinkle,” which was supposed to be smaller than a typical baby shower, but there was nothing small about this gathering. A woman who looked like a younger, emo version of Samantha breezed past from the living room to join them. Must be her sister, Rainy thought, lingering near the front door. She hesitated; she wanted to get the chair out of the back of her truck, but she knew that if she didn’t go in and make her presence known, they would hold up the whole thing till she was back.

  When Rainy walked into the room, she skirted the group so that she was standing at the back of the small crowd. Rainy spotted Tara at the center of the group, wearing a silk jumpsuit and holding a glass of champagne. Her signature ponytail was held back with a gold scrunchie. Rainy did not envy Tara’s gift of holding court. Without Braithe present, all the women were enraptured with her second-in-command. Tara’s eyes were busy scanning faces, checking attendance. Her eyes briefly rested on Rainy before she began announcing the night’s festivities.

  A few minutes after the first game ended, Rainy slipped out the kitchen door and headed for her truck. The night air was sharp and fresh, and it swept through her lungs, revitalizing her. She planned on grabbing the rocking chair and leaving it on the front porch with the card she’d taped underneath a white bow. Rainy had been secretly working on the chair for two months, after hearing Viola say she “couldn’t find anything but basic bitch rocking chairs.” Rainy had constructed the chair out of metal and wood, combining Samantha’s midcentury modern taste with Viola’s industrial.

  “Hey! Hey, Rainy.” She turned to see Tara tiptoeing toward her over the gravel, trying to keep her heels from sinking.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  It was dark outside. Rainy could just make out Tara’s expression as she passed the kitchen window and trotted toward her. She looked...strained.

  “Um...no. I just have to run back out to the truck to get Viola’s gift.” Her fingers drifted to her neckline, where they pinched at the links of the gold chain that rested there.

  “Oh.” Tara stopped where she was, looking embarrassed. “You’re coming back in, right?”

  A slow drizzle was falling on Rainy’s head and shoulders. She nodded, confused by Tara’s sudden interest in her comings and goings.

  “Is there...do you need me for something?” Someone cheered inside the house, followed by a round of laughter. Tara glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen door, and then looked uncertainly back at Rainy.

  “No,” she said finally. And then: “I’ll see you inside.”

  Rainy didn’t watch her walk back into the house; she turned, eyes wide, and jogged to the truck. What the—?

  She’d wrapped the chair in old sheets, and she pulled them off before carrying her gift to the front porch and setting it down where they could find it later. She checked her phone, hoping Grant had texted. Nothing. Then, steeling herself, Rainy walked through the door.

  Halfway through the baby shower, Viola pulled her into the pantry and handed her a fresh glass of wine. “I’ve got the tea,” she said, and dipped her head around the corner to make sure no one was in earshot, her braids sliding across her bare shoulder. Then she did a little dance without lifting her feet off the ground, shuffling left, then right.

  “What is it?” Rainy laughed, taking a sip of her wine. Their pantry was neatly organized and labeled—even the pasta was in matching glass jars with labels that read Bucatini, Angel, Bowtie. “Wow, okay...” Rainy said, looking around. “I definitely feel like a failure.”

  Viola waved an annoyed hand in her face. “Pay attention!”

  Rainy faced her in the cramped space, barely able to lift her wineglass to her mouth. “Go,” she said.

  Viola didn’t need further nudging.

  “So, I accidentally picked up Tara’s phone earlier instead of my own—you know how we both have that same phone case.”

  Rainy nodded.

  “Dude, Braithe is not sick. Her text said, ‘Thanks for covering for me, I owe you.’”

  “It might not mean anything,” Rainy said. But the pantry, no longer charming with its labels, suddenly felt smaller. Her breath caught and she felt hot. Viola was blocking the door with her body, her belly between them; Rainy’s back was now to the pasta, and she wanted out.

  “This party was her idea. She has no reason to not want to be here.” And that was true; Braithe was consistent, and she adored Viola.

  “Okay, but I’m not finished. The next text from Braithe said, ‘I’ll tell you everything tonight. Come over after the party.’”

  That was harder to explain. Rainy bit her lip, trying to think of something so that she could get out of the pantry; it felt like the walls were squeezing tighter by the second.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked Viola.

  “Honestly, I have no idea. She told me she was sick when I texted her—‘I can barely stand up’ are the words she used to describe her situation. Do you think she’s mad at me?”

  “Can Braithe be mad at anyone?”

  Viola took a minute to consider that one. Then she shook her head. “No, she’s not like that.”

  “Maybe she’s mad at me,” Rainy suggested. “Or one of the others. Or maybe she really is sick, and she needs Tara to come keep her company later.” With her non-wine-holding hand, she reached past Viola and turned the door handle. The door swung open and cool, fresh air reached her lungs. “Either way, this is your baby shower, and you shouldn’t be worrying about this.”

  “You’re right.” Viola backed out of the pantry.

  Rainy thought about how Tara had chased her outside earlier when she went to her truck for the rocking chair. That had been weird. “You’ll text me if you hear anything, yes?”