CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      Bill Whitmire watched his wife, who sat cross-legged on their bed, using the palm of her hand to smooth out the surface of their down duvet. He could hear her voice from the last time they’d spent more than a single night there, reminding herself aloud that it was finally getting warm enough to pack that layer into storage and replace it with the cotton coverlet she loved so much.

      Since then, their visits to the city hadn’t been long enough to justify even that minor change.

      She was surrounded on the bed by brochures and pamphlets fanned out in front of her like tarot cards. Her therapist had dropped them off earlier tonight. He’d heard their conversation in the foyer. Grief counseling. Group therapy. Bill—never a fan of psychotherapy—might feel more comfortable in solo sessions, with a separate therapist.

      The therapist had also warned that they might require couples counseling. The sooner the better, he had said. He’d told Katherine that the majority of parents who lost a child ended up divorced within three years.

      Bill had been tempted to storm downstairs and throw the man out. Using the death of their child to instill fears in Katherine about their marriage? But for some reason, he couldn’t stop eavesdropping, watching them in the front hall from his spot on the second-floor landing. He wanted to hear his wife defend herself. To defend their marriage and the family they had created. To tell him they would be just fine—together.

      Instead, she’d allowed the therapist to drone on. “That’s not to say that you and Bill won’t weather the storm,” he’d said. “Some couples become closer than ever. They find a permanent and impenetrable connection in the memories of the child who was lost.” He had interlaced his fingers together to demonstrate the bond that she might suddenly form with her husband.

      When Katherine had finally spoken, it was to say words he never would have expected to hear. “You’ve sat through enough sessions with me to know that Bill doesn’t form permanent and impenetrable bonds with anyone, let alone me.”

      Julia—his Baby J—had been dead less than a day, and he could already feel the mother of his children slipping away from him.

      It had started earlier this evening, after the police detectives left and before the therapist had arrived. She had been lying on the bed, and he had tried crawling next to her. Usually she was the one who sought physical proximity during sleep. She was the one who would back up into his body, nudging him to wrap his arms around her. Usually he would roll away to avoid the extra heat.

      But today, he’d reached out for her. He’d pressed his chest against her back, wrapping his arms tightly around her. It had been Katherine who had pulled away, pretending to roll over in a sleep she had not yet actually found.

      Unlike his wife, though—in fact, unlike most people—he was not the type to wallow among a stack of mumbo-jumbo pamphlets or numb himself with happy pills, all in the hope that life would somehow magically improve.

      He recognized his wife’s strengths and weaknesses, and dealing with a problem was not her strength. Making decisions was not her strength. These jobs always fell to him. Even with the studio on Long Island, he had to be the one finally to pull the trigger.

      He told her he worked better out there. He told her he was getting sick of the city. But he also was very clear that he would stay in the townhouse if that was what she and the kids wanted. He knew how much she loved the house. He knew the kids still had their high school years ahead of them.