When he spoke again, his voice was empty.
“The baby upstairs is my daughter.”
I stared at him.
“Of course she is. She’s our daughter.”
“No.”
He lowered his eyes.
“She is mine. She isn’t yours.”
I gripped the doorframe.
“Whose child is in my nursery?”
“Her name was Celia before we brought her home.”
“Who is her mother?”
Keaton rubbed both hands across his face.
“Blythe.”
I knew the name.
Blythe worked in his office. I had met her twice at company dinners. She was soft-spoken and always seemed embarrassed when I tried to include her in conversation.
“You had an affair.”
“Yes.”
“And she had your baby.”
“Yes.”
I could hardly hear my own voice.
“Where is Liora?”
Keaton looked away.
That was when my body understood before my mind did.
“No.”
“Maris—”
“No.”
“Our daughter did not survive the delivery.”
The room tilted.
“I held her.”
“You held her for less than a minute. She was already gone.”
I remembered the flowered cap.
The cold cheek beneath my fingers.
Keaton saying, She needs to be checked.
“You knew.”
He nodded.
