The high beams lit the straight road ahead. The pavement was black and glossy like the skin of a wet serpent. There was no one else on the road. The street lamps flashed by as my mother geared up again.

“What do you mean?” I shouted, dropping Annabelle’s hand and grabbing for the dashboard.

My mother shifted her gaze from the road, peering over at me. Illuminated houses snapped by as though they were being inconsistently captured with a flashbulb camera. She looked wild in the forefront, her dark hair flying upward as wind shot in through her open window. Her blue eyes had darkened—wicked and vindictive—and for a moment, I didn’t recognize her at all. I thought she was going to kill us.

“You killed Sophia.”

My stomach churned, and acidic liquid shot up my throat. I covered my mouth with my hand and “What?” came out like a breath.

My mother continued to stare at me. Her bottom teeth were pushed forward into an underbite. Her chin quivered. She wasn’t watching the road. I swallowed the vomit in my mouth as her words came out even and pointed. “You rolled her over and she suffocated. It’s your fault. Why do you have to take everything from me?”

Chapter 68

“Did you hear?” Jack called from the living room.

“Hear what?” I asked, perched against the kitchen island.

“They’re tearing down the old hospital.”

I heard the newspaper crumple as he folded it, his mug hitting the coffee table.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Weren’t you born there?”

My gaze drifted out the window where the snow was falling, collecting on the tree outside our house. “I was.”

“We should check it out.” Jack made his way into the kitchen. “You know, when they rip it down.”

I was suddenly very aware of my impermanence. I couldn’t help but acknowledge the symbolism attached to the destruction of my birthplace.

“I don’t think so.” I moved to the living room, picking up the newspaper to find the article. My eyes were met with a photograph of the hospital: tall and majestic, in its prime.

Jack was standing behind me. “What’s wrong? I thought you loved destruction.”

“Yeah.” I dropped the paper onto the oxblood sofa. “Not of the self.”

His eyes darted to the cigarette-burn scar on my forearm. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Fuck you, Jack.”

“Come on, I’m just joking,” he scoffed. “What happened to your sense of humour?”

“I guess it died with our baby.”

Chapter 69

Jack had disappeared again. I knew he was off somewhere drinking.

This time, I sensed something wasn’t right. It was a feeling that had been building for weeks. I tried calling him. No response.

I paced the apartment, trying to reason with myself. He’d probably just lost his phone again. He’d be home any minute.

I drank glasses of vodka mixed with Orange Crush. I counted and colour-coordinated the bookshelf between railing lines of coke I’d cut up with a razor blade. I hovered the blade near my wrist and considered digging it in—how good it would feel to get some relief—before placing it back on the shelf. I had promised Jack I wouldn’t do that anymore. I dragged the oxblood sofa a little to the left, and when that didn’t feel quite right, I dragged it a little to the right. I tried calling Jack again. It went straight to voicemail.