“Well, wouldn’t it have been nice to prove that,” I say. I’m growing desperate, like she is an impenetrable wall getting thicker by the minute. “I have tried so hard, Anne—have tried to keep things calm between us—and all you can think about is who’s on whose side? What about the common good? What about working as a threesome? What about consulting each other and reaching a consensus? Did it not occur to you that we might have thoughts about disposing of the gun? Did you not think to ask?”

“You would have said no.”

“Because no was the responsible thing to say,” I argue. “Listen to yourself. It’s great that you’re an optimist, but there’s a difference between optimism and naiveté. Optimism is the hope that things will work out well. Naiveté is the refusal to be realistic when they don’t. Being naïve doesn’t work now, and trust me it won’t work in seven months—” I trip at the words and quickly add, “or twelve months or twenty months.” But the damage is done.

Anne’s face changes into something I’ve never seen. “You’re right about not being my sister,” she seethes with a venom that the rain can’t dilute. “Whoever your father is, he must be a rat. You’re not Dad’s. You have none of his good in you. You’re the bastard daughter, Mallory,” she spits, “the bastard.” When she pushes past me, I’m stunned enough to do nothing.

She doesn’t run, simply stalks back down the rain-coated dock to the beach as we watch in shock.

“What was that about?” Margo says into her wake, then to me, “What was that about?”

I push wet hair back from my face. “Anger,” I reply, but I’m trembling harder than ever. When Joy’s cold fingers slip between mine, it’s a lifeline. Pulling her close, I tuck her hand against my churning middle. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” Suddenly, brutally aware that I’m the mother, she the child, and we’re standing in the rain, I wrap an arm around her and start us down the dock. “I didn’t think it would get so bad.”

“What was she talking about, Mom?”

“What was that about?” Margo repeats from my other side. I pick up the pace, but she stays close. “‘Whoever your father is’? What in the hell did she mean by that? And seven months? That’s a magic number. Is she pregnant?”

Joy might have missed that part had Margo not pointed it out, but I’m too devastated to do more than mutter, “She’ll have to tell you herself,” and hurry across the sand. The night is too dark, too wet, too empty at the edges for me to be here another minute.

“She is,” Margo declares as we hit the stairs. “Is it Billy’s?”