“We still haven’t spoken with Lillian about this.” Kiersten squirted cleaning spray on a dry-erase board filled with algebra problems. “But she came home from her trip yesterday, and she’s lived here for decades. And she might know something that points us in a completely different direction.”
“Before we do anything else, we need to finish Dottie’s last diary,” Piper said, handing her a paper towel. “We only have a couple entries left.”
“Where is it?” Kiersten asked.
Piper frowned. “Where’s what?”
“Thediary.”
Her heart dropped. “I thought you had it.”
“I don’t have it,” Rosamund said.
Kiersten went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later. “Sorry. It was buried in a pile of LEGOs. Ready?”
Piper sat in a dining room chair, prepared to listen with an open mind, hoping she was wrong about her neighbors, wrong about Dottie’s fate, wrong about everything. But the tiny whisper of intuition that had guided her through a long law enforcement career told her she was right.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Dottie
October 8, 1965
We opened the door in the far corner of the basement and entered the fallout shelter with one last load of mason jars.
Suddenly, Peggy cried out, doubled over, and dropped a jar of beet pickles on the hard-packed dirt floor. The jar broke open. The liquid inside seeped into the dirt.
She moaned softly, then sank onto one of the cots we keep inside the shelter.
I set my crate of preserves on the table next to the shelf holding the blankets, board games, and first aid supplies. Then I sat beside her.
“Are you okay?”
She closed her eyes, then nodded. “The baby’s coming.”
“Right now?” I asked, alarmed.
“The contractions started at dawn.”
“But you aren’t due until the end of the month,” I argued, as though this would somehow make the contractions stop.
“Sometimes babies come early,” she said, wincing.
“Shouldn’t you go to the hospital?”
“I can’t.”
My mouth went dry, and I swallowed. “Why not?”
“Because I’m giving birth to your baby. Remember?”
“This is crazy.” I took her arm and attempted to pull her up, off the cot. “You need a doctor.”
She waved this advice away with a sharp groan. Then she turned to me, her pale face urgent. “We don’t have much time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for saving your life.”
