I didn’t think anything of it. Why would I? He’d done it a hundred times.
Almost an hour passed.
I remember noticing, somewhere around the forty-five minute mark, that it was taking a while. But Daisy had been so wound up. Maybe he was letting her sleep in the car so the transfer to the crib wouldn’t wake her. That’s what I told myself. I refilled my wine.
Then someone pounded on the front door.
Not knocked. Pounded, hard and fast, three times.
I opened it and I froze.
Charlotte was standing on my porch. And she was holding my daughter.
Daisy was awake, wide awake, her little arms wrapped around Charlotte’s neck, one fist clutching the collar of that black jacket. And she looked… fine. Comfortable, even. Which somehow made everything worse.
For a second my brain just refused to work. Charlotte. The woman my husband had warned me about for a year. Standing here with my child.
“Where’s Oliver?” I said. It came out as barely a whisper.
