I think of Amy when she told me what happened to Will. She lost something she can never get back. They all did. But she doesn’t want to live that lie anymore.

“What about Logan?” I ask.

Jane stares at me like I’m prey. “What about him?”

“He has a mother. A real mother.”

“I’m his real mother. And his name is William.”

She’s calmer now, and, if you didn’t know better, you would think this was a normal conversation.

“It wasn’t always, though, was it? You took him.”

Jane shakes her head and says, “We both know that’s not true.”

I could stop now, but Amy wants this. She said it’s okay to say her name. She said it’s vital.

So I open my mouth and force out the words because this tape is a confession, and Jane’s isn’t the only one.

“Okay. Amy took him. But you made her do it.”

“She had to,” Jane says. “It was the only way. You must understand, Tom. Remember how your family reacted when I took Aaron for an hour? Imagine that with no end. I had to do something. I’m sorry you found out, because Amy really liked you. But you know you can never tell. Give my son back and stop digging.”

She’s crying again, now, and I risk the quickest glance at the camera. But she catches me, follows my gaze and says, “What have you done?”

Jane’s eyes are tiny specks of fury, and there’s movement behind her. I see them before she does.

“Mum,” Amy says. “Stop.”

94

Amy and Logan are standing in the doorway, and Jane looks from them to me and back again. “They took him…” she whispers.

Amy touches her mother’s shoulder. “They didn’t.”

The anger falls from Jane’s face, replaced by confusion. “But…”

“It’s over,” Amy says. “I’m tired, Mum. We all are.”

I hear the floorboards creak, and I imagine Mum, Jay, and Nia upstairs, discussing what to do. But I hold my hand to my ear—our secret sign that I’m okay—and the creaking stops.

Amy looks at me, and she isn’t scared. She looks strong, and I want to hug her and tell her I’m sorry for not figuring it out sooner. I want to hold her because it worked. We have Jane’s confession on tape; at least enough of it for Amy to fill in the gaps.

The sound of sirens breaks the silence. Usually, it surges and fades, but, today, it gets louder until I know exactly where it is.

“We should go,” Amy says. She pushes her lips together and nods, then leads her mother down the path.