“Oliver, no—” But he wouldn’t let me speak as he slid past me, sank into the driver’s seat, and closed the car door. He pressed his palm to the window, and I pressed mine against his on the other side. We were one, separated by glass. Ironically symbolic of what was to come.

As his car faded from view down the road, I imagined Oliver walking into the police station, straight to Detective Montgomery’s cubicle. Her looking up from her computer, expectation on her face. I could hear the chatter and phones ringing and someone yelling in the background, all draining away as Oliver fixed his attention on the woman who would seal his fate. I envisioned my sweet husband exhaling all that fear bubbling up inside him, uncertain how to push the words out. My brain rumbled a million possible outcomes, all ending with visions of Oliver being hauled away in handcuffs.

A maternal yearning drew me upstairs. I needed to be close to my children; I had been a confession away from losing them. As I passed Vera’s open door, I recalled the day six months ago when Marin had found the pot stashed in Vera’s desk. I had been so angry at her, unable to understand the relationship between her and Vera. I knew even back then she was hiding something…now I wished I could speak with her. Pick her brain to understand everything...but it was too late for that now.

I blinked and found myself crouched under her desk, looking for whatever secret enclosure Marin had found that day. Running my hands up and down every square inch of surface, it seemed like a typical antique writing desk. The drawer, the pull-out slides, the pigeon-hole shelves, the folding writing lid, the tambour door, everything appeared normal. Something special about this desk had drawn Vera to it. She had mentioned it to me when I first showed her the articles in the creepy library, pointed her finger at the words in the article. What were those words?

Something about a woman detective…and a hollow leg. I focused on each tapered leg, tracing each husk inlay with my fingers, until a piece of wood on the back leg wobbled against my pressure. I slid the wood out and reached inside. Further, deeper until my hand couldn’t fit anymore. My fingers curled around a slick, glossy tube. When I pulled the rolled-up photo out and straightened it, I realized why Vera had known instantly she was adopted. The faces, unfamiliar at first, congealed into recognizable forms. In the picture was a teenage version of Marin, newborn Vera, Bennett from how I remembered him that night, and a woman, haggard and hollow-cheeked—presumably Marin’s mother. Held beside baby Vera was the velveteen rabbit that Sydney had left on Vera’s bed next to a curled-up Meowzebub, for once not up to any mischief.