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There’s that error message again.
“Weird,” she whispers. “It’s like my phone is rigged to prevent me from looking up anything about Rhiannon.”
Sarah seems puzzled. “Maybe Rhiannon blocked searches for herself? You can do that, I believe, within a closed network.”
Lenna is about to shake her head—that sounds so paranoid—but maybe it’s not such a crazy idea. If Rhiannondidsteal a baby, of course she wouldn’t want people here to know. It’s precisely why Sarah doesn’t go bySadieanymore: so people are less likely to find out she’d been accused of killing Gillian.
She types Sarah’s name into the Google search. But to her bewilderment, the same error message appears.Access Denied.
Frowning, she types in her name next. Same message. She types in Amy’s name, and Melissa’s, and Gia’s, and Coral’s. But when she types in arandomname—her father’s name, and then Judy’s from the office, and then Daniel’s—Google works just fine.Uneasiness settles over her, crawling across her skin like tiny mites.
She shows the screen to Sarah. “Rhiannon’s isn’t the only name that’s blocked. Weallare. No one here can look up anything aboutanyof us.”
27
Rhiannon
June
Two years before
Joanna Cook opened the door wider for Rhiannon to step inside. Did she want coffee? Something to eat? She had completely brushed over the fact that she was having a baby. But Rhiannon needed to rewind.
“Hang on,” she said, gesturing toward her mother’s swollen midsection. “How did this happen?”
Joanna smiled wryly. “I’m assuming you’ve taken sex ed.”
“But you’re…”
“Old? Age is only a number.”
She was forty-seven, though. It wasn’t impossible, Rhiannon supposed—but unlikely. But she wasn’t even only asking that. She had lost track of Joanna’s romantic situation.
“Is the baby…you know, healthy?” she asked instead.
“Think so.” Joanna shrugged. Then she clutched Rhiannon’s hands and pulled her into a hug. “I’m so glad you came. It’s good we’re finally doing this.”
At first, Rhiannon’s disappointment startled her. She searchedfor the meaning behind it. The weirdness of her mother having a baby. Or maybe it was how she’d saidIt’s almost time,like she’d been called here not just because her mother missed her, but because of something else.
“Almost time for what?” she asked.
“Huh?” Joanna paused mid-waddle as she led them into an old-fashioned kitchen: chipped cabinets with grimy hinges, a butter-colored refrigerator that made ominous groaning sounds, suspicious stains on the tile floor.
“You said, before, that it was almost time. For what? Is this what you wanted me to help you with?” She pointed at Joanna’s belly, the dread rising. It was. It had to be.
The back door banged before Joanna could answer. A man in a workman’s jumpsuit and heavy boots stepped into the kitchen, his brow furrowed in surprise when he noticed Rhiannon there. He had a good head of frizzy graying hair, a goatee, squinty eyes, and leathery skin.
Joanna’s smile was fluttery. “John. This is my daughter. Rhiannon.”
John’s eyes bulged. He slapped his thighs dramatically. “You look too old to be her daughter!”
“Well, I mean, Iam,kind of,” Rhiannon said under her breath.
“Aren’t you sweet.” Joanna smiled shyly. “Rhiannon, this is Johnny.”
Johnny shook her hand. His palm was warm, and he smelled, nauseatingly, like tobacco. Rhiannon had always hated the odor. She thought about her own father, who might have smelled like booze half his life but at least never smelled like cigarettes.
Johnny said he worked at a Mercedes car dealership up the road—maintenance, not a bad gig. He had grown adult children, too—two sons, both in their late twenties. Pieces of shit, they both were—though in the next moment, he grinned. “I’m kidding.”Rhiannon inspected him stealthily, looking for shaking hands, dilated pupils.
