The story, as was to be expected, was everywhere, even now, six months hence. Sutton and Ethan had been approached countless times about interviews, television, movies. Holly had been accosted by directors. They were all fielding offers to write a book. Holly refused outright. Sutton didn’t think they should, either, and Ethan agreed. But Bill and Jess were pushing, hard.

Ivy was gone. Her accomplice was in jail. Their lives were their own again.

The baby rolled lazily under his father’s hand, then kicked his mother in the kidney for good measure.

“Oof,” Sutton said, enjoying every minute. “He’s going to be a football player.”

“Cricket. The boy will play cricket.”

Holly Graham’s unmarked car pulled up in front of them.

“Holly’s here,” Ethan said.

“Oh, Lord, help me up. I look like a whale lying here.”

“You look beautiful.” But he helped her, laughing, a hand at her back. She was ungainly; she was adorable.

Holly gave them both careful hugs. “Should we go inside? I have some news.”

“Uh-oh. I’ve heard that tone from teachers about to slap my hand with a ruler,” Ethan joked. But Sutton said, “Yes, let’s go in. It’s too cool now, anyway.”

In the kitchen, Sutton ran her hand along the marble counter. She sat on a breakfast stool, pressed her aching back into the tall seat. Ethan sat next to her. Holly stood.

“This will be difficult to hear.”

“Go on,” Sutton said, feigning nonchalance. She knew the words were coming. She could feel them in the air.

“Ivy was wrong.”

* * *

Ethan was pacing by the window, a caged tiger, fury emanating off him like a storm.

Sutton hadn’t moved from her spot.

Holly was still talking, explaining, soothing.

“We’re absolutely sure. We found her notebooks, her computer records. All her research, all the painstaking details she’d sifted through, all the assumptions she’d made, all of them were wrong. The only fact she got right was that she was the daughter of a woman who had her while in juvenile detention.”

“But not me,” Sutton whispered.

“No. Not you. Not even the same facility. When all the juvenile facilities went online, as mandated by the State of Tennessee, the records were accidentally merged together. On paper, Elizabeth Sutton Wilson was named as the mother of a little girl the nurses called Ivy.”

“So who is she really? Who was her mother?” Ethan demanded.

“Legally, I can’t share that information, but she’s gone. She died from a heroin overdose the month after she got out of juvie.”

“But my daughter? Do you know—”

“Wait,” Ethan said, striding toward Holly so quickly she almost flinched. Almost. “Before you answer, Holly... Sutton, you need to think this through. There’s no going back.”

Sutton nodded. “I know.”

Holly tapped her notebook. “I have as much or as little information as you want, Sutton. The adoption was closed, but under the circumstances...”