“The FDA came out with this groundbreaking CF drug last year—a game changer, they’re calling it. Do you know what it costs? More than $300,000 a year. If you’re lucky, you’ve got insurance to cover most of that and a big, fat pot of savings to fill the gap, but what about the rest of us? We’re just supposed to sit around and watch our kids dig their own graves?”

What are the odds? Of all the little girls suffering from CF in this city, what are the odds Tanya’s niece could be the same girl as this man’s daughter? A million to one, probably.

A coincidence? Maybe.

Except I no longer believe in coincidences. Not anymore. As of today there are no more coincidences.

Especially not since I now know Tanya took Beatrix’s signs. No wonder the police haven’t come. Tanya tore down my brilliant daughter’s SOS signs before anyone could see, right before she walked out the door with Baxter.

The room spins. My lungs lock up. My skin goes hot and my blood icy cold.

Tanya has Baxter.

“And while I’m at it, here’s another disgusting fact for you. Canadians with CF live ten whole years longer than Americans. Why is that, do you reckon?”

He seems to expect an answer, so I press my hand to my churning stomach and give him one. “I’m betting it has something to do with insurance.”

“Damn straight it does. Americans love to criticize Canada’s state-run health-care system, but the only thing ours is serving are the bottom lines for the drug and insurance companies. A bunch of crooks and thieves. They don’t give the first shit about the number of bodies they have to trample over in order to get to their private planes.”

I try to talk myself out of it, scanning my memory for any other connections we might have shared. Stories of her sisters’ husbands—Dave who works in HR, Robby the banker. Her ex, Thomas, whom I’ve never met, a litigator who traded her in for a much younger, much blonder woman named Tiffani, who Tanya is certain was once a stripper. Her niece’s father, who is not a brother but a cousin—a cousin—who lives...where? Who does what? I have no idea.

Funny how in her endless babble Tanya refers to everyone she’s ever met by name, childhood friends and college pals, the neighbors and their kids, even the neighbors’ dogs and the cashiers up at Kroger. And yet she’s never once called her cousin by his. Come to think of it, I don’t know her niece’s name, either. Tanya’s only ever referred to her as “my sweet, sick niece.”

My heart stops. My mind screams.

No. Dear God, no.