The babysitter claimed she put the infant down for a nap, and when she went to check on him, saw he was not breathing and called 9-1-1. The initial findings pointed to a SIDS death, but subsequent toxicology reports showed high levels of diphenhydramine in the infant’s blood. The babysitter was subsequently arrested on the charge of first-degree homicide. In her deposition, she admitted to giving the child the drug when he wouldn’t stop crying.

There was more, but that was all Sutton needed to see. The knowledge poured over her like freezing water. Her teeth began to chatter. She grabbed her arms to keep the shaking under control. She knew what had happened. Finally, she knew. She’d been right all along. The nagging suspicion that ate at her day and night and ruined her marriage, her life. The words that had been whispering through her brain for almost a year.

Ethan killed the baby.

Sutton didn’t know what to do. Should she go to the police, tell them her husband was a monster, that he’d killed their child? That he’d been abusing her? She had proof: she had the pictures of the bruises on her arm, the shots of her broken nose. All those times the police had come during their fights... She hadn’t called them, it was the neighbors who heard the yelling and tried to protect her from afar, something she’d always been livid about, but now, knowing she was living with a murderer, she was utterly grateful for their interference. What might have happened if they hadn’t called?

Ivy had warned her Ethan was volatile. That she should always have a plan, just in case. And now she understood why.

Ivy. Of course. She’d go to Ivy. She’d know what to do.

* * *

“I have something to tell you.”

Ivy poured the wine into Sutton’s glass, ruby liquid purling against the edges. Set the bottle on the table. Picked up her own glass and made a small salute. “Ching-ching. What is it?”

“It’s about Ethan.”

Ivy’s glass stopped moving, the wine tipped precariously. Then she took a long swallow. “What about Ethan?”

Sutton reached into her purse and pulled out the bottle of diphenhydramine.

“I found this. In Dashiell’s room.”

Ivy took it, turned it over, read the back. “Okay. What is it? You know I’m not the mother here.”

“It’s generic Benadryl. For allergy attacks.”

“Oh. Isn’t he a little young for this? I mean, far be it from me to talk about motherhood, but it clearly says on the label not to give it to children under a year old without a doctor’s supervision.”