“Listen,” Garth whispers, “I just walked into our room to change. Somebody’s in our bed…And it isn’t Goldilocks. What’s going on?”

  “That’s Ashley. Remember I told you she’d be spending the night here?” She plunges the toothbrush back into her mouth and resumes scrubbing. The minty toothpaste, usually so refreshing, seems vaguely distasteful this morning.

  “No, I don’t remember anything about it, but I’ve been so crazed lately I’m lucky if I manage to remember what time my next lecture starts. Which I can, and it’s in exactly an hour and twenty minutes, and Papa Bear’s got to get showered and dressed, so…”

  Brynn leans over the sink to spit out an unpleasant mouthful of foamy Colgate. “I’ll wake up Ashley in a minute.”

  “Thanks.” Garth’s gaze meets hers in the mirror. “What’s wrong? You seem upset.”

  Sheis upset…And she isn’t even entirely sure why. Something is still just…offwith her this morning.

  It might have something to do with Ashley being here last night, confiding just how absent a parent Fee has been lately.

  It might also have something to do with Garthnot being here last night.

  Yes, she’s aware that Thursday is his late night on campus. And that he’s been working on his book every chance he gets in preparation for the symposium.

  Still…

  “You never came home,” she hears herself telling him in an accusatory tone.

  He raises his eyebrows. “I was working on the book…which you forbade me to do in the house, remember?” His tone is as accusatory as hers. “I need to have this chapter wrapped up.”

  “Well, you should call me if you’re not coming home at all.”

  “When? At three-thirty in the morning? Because that’s when I realized I needed to download at least another hour’s worth of research before I could even finish the page I was writing.”

  “No…” Deflated, she turns to look him in the eye, face-to-face. “I’m sorry, I was just worried about you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know…I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I saw your pillow and that old blanket on the couch. Take it from me, it isn’t the most comfortable piece of furniture we own.”

  “Sadly, itis the most comfortable piece of furniture we own,” she tells him, turning on the water to rinse out the sink.

  “Then let’s get new furniture.” He rests his hands on her shoulders and tilts her back to lean against his chest, setting his chin on her head as they stare at each other in the mirror.

  “Are you kidding? We can’t afford that.”

  “Let’s get it anyway. We need something good, Brynn.”

  “Debt isn’t good.”

  “Maybe I’ll sell this book. I have a gut feeling that something great is right around the corner.”

  Why does Brynn have the very opposite gut feeling?

  She leans forward, away from Garth, and abruptly opens the medicine cabinet.

  “Let’s go furniture shopping this weekend,” he suggests as she takes out the plastic case containing her birth control pills.

  “Can’t. I’m working Caleb’s school’s booth at the arts and crafts festival Saturday, and Zack’s birthday party is Sunday. Remember?”

  Clearly, he doesn’t.

  Nor does he know who Zack is.

  “Maggie’s son,” Brynn explains, wondering how he can be so out of touch with the daily life she lives with the kids.

  “Oh. Right. Next weekend, then?”

  “Can’t,” she says again, poking a pill from the packet into her hand. “I’m taking the boys to the Cape and you’re going to that symposium in Arizona. Don’t tell me you actually forgot that, too?”

  “I told you, my memory isn’t functioning well these days.” He presses a thumb and forefinger against his forehead, looking exhausted.

  “Well, a total lack of sleep will do that to a person.”

  “Sleep? Who has time for sleep? When did our lives become so scheduled?”

  “My life isn’t all that scheduled,” Brynn points out, shaking her head and staring down at the little white pill in her hand. “I’m always here.”

  You’re the one who’s been overscheduled, overworked, overtired. Even more so than usual lately.

  “As I recall, that’s howyou wanted it,” Garth tells her. “You said you wanted to stay home with the boys while they’re young.”

  “What are you saying? That you want me to go to work?”

  She plucks that out of oblivion and flings it at him, stupidly.

  And she regrets it the moment it’s out there, because that isn’t what he was saying at all, and she knows it.

  Then again…

  That might have been what he was thinking.

  Not that he would ever admit it.

  He doesn’t. He rubs his temple for a minute, looking tired, before saying levelly, “Brynn, you know I support your choice to be a full-time mom, so don’t put words into my mouth, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says quietly.

  Then…

  “If we can afford new furniture, why not a new baby?”

  Oh, no. Did she actually saythat aloud?

  She must have, because a parade of expressions is marching across Garth’s face like a news crawl: from weary to confused to incredulous to fuming.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious.”

  “I thought we resolved this months ago.”

  “Well, we didn’t.”

  Glaring at her, he reaches for the knob and jerks the bathroom door shut.

  She knows it’s because he doesn’t want to wake the boys and Ashley, but suddenly, she’s frightened. She doesn’t want to be alone in this tiny room with him.

  Not when he’s looking at her as though…

  No, that’s crazy.

  Garth is angry, yes…angrier than she’s seen him in a long time. But she’s not afraid of him. He’s her husband. They love each other.

  Just not so much, at this particular moment.

  So drop it,she warns herself.Drop the subject.

  “Never mind,” she tells Garth. “Forget I said anything.”

  “There are some things even I can’t forget,” he shoots back as she puts the tiny pill on her tongue and bends over the sink. “You know damned well that affording a new couch and a new baby are two entirely different things.”

  “Not just a couch.” She runs cold water into her cupped hand and tilts it into her mouth to get the pill down, then straightens to look him in the eye. “You said newfurniture . That costs thousands of dollars. What does a baby cost? The first year, I mean. Not thousands.”

  “You know this isn’t just about money. And what about the second year, and the third? And the sixteenth, when the baby wants to drive, and the eighteenth, when it wants to go to college?”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “No,you’re being ridiculous.”

  He’s right. She is. He already told her in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t want a third child.

  Why did she even bring it up again?

  Maybe because the prospect of a third child has been simmering in her mind ever since, refusing to be snuffed out by Garth’s adamant refusal.

  Yes, the whole thing got back-burnered in the flurry of strep throat and Caleb starting school and…

  And Rachel.

  But now all of that has faded, and life has settled back into a routine, and Brynn wants another baby.

  And it isn’t fair that Garth is taking that away from her.

  Feeling like a kid whose PlayStation privileges have been permanently revoked, Brynn folds her arms and lifts her chin. “Why doyou get to decide? What about whatI want?”

  “What about what Idon’t? ”

  They stare at each other for a long moment.

  Then a terrified scream erupts from down the hall.

  Caleb.

  Both Brynn and Garth bolt in that direction.

  Their oldest son is standing barefoot in the kitchen doorway, wearing his favorite white Skivvy Doodle pajamas with the blue puppy print.

  “There’s something yucky there, Mommy!” He turns and buries his head in Brynn’s hip, cowering.

  Relieved, she strokes his head. “What is it, baby?”

  “Oh, God, I see it…” Garth walks gingerly toward an object on the countertop.

  “What is it?” All Brynn can make out is a bright splash of red against the white laminate.

  “It’s a bird.”

  “What?”

  “Is it dead?” At his father’s grim nod, Caleb slips from Brynn’s grasp and backs away.

  She steps closer, wondering how on earth it could have gotten into the house.

  Then she sees that it’s lying in a pool of red blood—much more blood than one small bird’s body could possibly spill—and that the pile of limp feathers and bones unmistakably belong to a cardinal.

  Hearing a movement in the next room, Isaac abruptly minimizes the screen on the laptop balanced on his thighs.

  None too soon.

  Kylah appears in the doorway with a classic case of bed head, stretching on her tiptoes so that her T-shirt parts with the waistband of her flannel pajama bottoms to reveal her taut stomach.

  “Hey,” she says in her croaky morning voice. “What time did you get home? I tried to wait up for you.”

  “I told you not to. It was late.”

  “How late?”

  “I have no idea, but late.”

  “What are you doing?” She yawns and pads toward the couch.

  “Just checking my e-mail.”

  “Aren’t you going in today?”

  “To work?” He realizes that by this time, he’s usually out the door. “Oh…Yeah, I’m going, but I’m moving a little slower than usual.”

  “Hungover?”

  No, but…

  Should he claim to be?

  What difference would that make, in the end? He doesn’t have a credible alibi, when you come down to it. He can’t produce a group of guys who can vouch for his whereabouts at a bachelor party last night, so…

  So, what?

  You’re being paranoid.

  Just relax and stick with the story.

  Balancing his open computer on his lap, he presses his forefingers into his temples and frowns as though he’s got a pounding headache. “I guess I did drink a few too many.”

  “Beers?”

  “Beers…and shots…”

  Kylah sits beside him on the couch and leans toward his computer screen. “You did shots?”

  “Yes…What are you doing?”

  She looks at him in surprise, and he realizes he sounds almost frantic.

  “I was going to ask you to go on weather.com to see what coat I should wear to work,” she says mildly. “Why?”

  “Wear your trench. It’s supposed to rain.”

  “Really?”

  He can’t remember. Dammit. That just popped out. He was desperate to keep her from seeing his screen.

  Not that the heading on the minimized screen bar would mean anything to her at a glance:www.zetadeltakappa.com/ alumni.

  Still…She might ask questions.

  “Why don’t you just watch the news?” he asks Kylah, leaning forward to block the screen from her view as he reaches for the TV remote and hands it to her. “You always say it’s a lot more reliable than the Internet.”

  “Huh? I never say that.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I thought you did.”

  Avoiding her confused expression, he snaps his laptop closed, stands, and carries it toward the next room.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got to take a shower and get out of here.”

  “You make it sound like you have to escape.”

  He emits a short burst of sound he hopes passes for a laugh. “My office isn’t exactly an escape, babe.”

  But that’s where he’s headed, regardless of how tempting it is to zoom back up the New England Thruway.

  No, he’ll go to work, and he’ll come home, same as any other day.

  And the entire time, he’ll be thinking about Rachel.

  Same as any other day.

  Ordinarily, Fiona would be livid if she arrived at Fiona Fitzgerald Public Relations at 8:37AM and found the doors locked. Emily is supposed to be here bright and early to open up.

  Of course, that hasn’t been necessary any other day. Fiona usually gets here just before eight, which is when she drops Ashley at Saint Vincent’s School. But Emily, who is supposed to show up at 8:30 sharp, has the keysand explicit instructions for getting the office up and running first thing, should Fiona ever be delayed.

  She never has been, until now.

  In the alcove off the reception area, Fiona opens a packet of coffee and dumps it into a filter basket. Her hands are unsteady; a light rain of black grounds scatters over the pale blue speckled Corian.

  “Dammit.” She grabs the sponge beside the sink and finds that it’s bone dry.

  It shouldn’t be. Emily is supposed to wipe everything down at the close of each business day; it would still be damp if she’d done so last night.

  I’ve got to get rid of her. This is asinine.

  Fiona runs the sponge under the tap, rubs the countertop clean, and runs water into the coffee carafe.

  Yes, Emily has to be fired. But not today. Not until Fiona can focus on finding the right candidate to fill her place.

  With the coffeemaker beginning to sputter into action, she moves toward her shadowy office, turning on copiers, computers, and lights in her path.

  It’s a gray, misty morning out there today, mountain fog hanging low over Main Street. Beyond the tall windows, even the legendary autumn foliage seems more brown and tan than red and gold, as muted as Fiona’s mood.

  Reaching beneath the maroon fringed shade, she flicks on the tabletop lamp near her desk, spilling a pool of light across its surface.

  Immediately, she spots something that wasn’t there last night.

  Something that dispatches an icy river of dread through her veins.