To the fantastic team at Simon & Schuster Canada—FQ., Adria Iwasutiak, my amazing publicist Rita Silva, Kevin Hanson, et al. Thanks also to Jenny Chen and the team at Crooked Lane for understanding this book so well.

I needed professional insight throughout this process, and in gleaning it, I realize how many strong, frontline women I know who are doing some of the world’s most stressful jobs. Thank you to Karen Scott, Lois Lien, Christine Watson, Shannon Thast, Paula Gummerson, Lisa Rutherglen, Lisa Schmidtke, Sophie McLean, Carrie Mowery, and Susan Barth for everything you told me and everything you know. Massive respect to all of you, and if I got anything wrong, it’s my misrepresentation, not yours.

To the 24-Hour Chevy Stevens Help Line, which has been made available to me daily since 2017. Chevy, you’re a legend, my friend, and I ADORE YOU. Look, I even wrote it in capitals.

To Jo Histed, Sal Burdon, Sue Watt, Jonathan Watt, Robbie Nay, Kerry Elkins, Robyn Harding, Bertrand Pirel, and those in the inner circle. Writers need a community of people they trust, be it other writers, readers, bloggers, friends, and Instagramers: thanks to all those who post and tag supportively. You’d be amazed how far a kind comment can carry a writer on a self-doubting day.

To Empire Coffee in Nelson, British Columbia, where I wrote almost all of this novel, willfully disregarding the No Computer Camping sign to my left. Thanks to Joanne and the team for not kicking me out.

And finally, most important, to Clint, Cash, and Ruby. Hey, I finished the book! Here it is with all my love.

Prologue

The woman holds the baby close and ghost-dances by the window. She can see her reflection in the glass. She doesn’t mind being awake with her little boy at this odd, witchy hour when everyone else is asleep. This moment is a secret that only they share.

He is olive-skinned, familiar—although a far cry from her own pale coloring. It doesn’t matter, she thinks. He’s mine, and I’m keeping him.

Outside, the street is quiet. The mountains in the distance watch over the sleeping town. She concentrates on the cowrie-shell curl of his hand. His fingernails are tiny and perfect, little crescent moons in each one. Did she make those? In one of his hands is a worn old clothespin that he’s been gripping for days.

A dog’s bark pierces the silence, and the baby startles and throws out his arms.

How powerful babies are, she thinks. How vulnerable. She lifts her shirt and juggles him until he finds her breast. They fit perfectly together; they’re made for each other.

A few moments later, the baby unlatches, frustrated, and she prods at his lips, her brow darkening. “I’m sorry,” she says to him. “Shhhh.” He doesn’t even try to latch again. Instead, he fusses and turns his head away.