I feel bad for her. Her daughter made one bad decision leading to another years ago, just one monumental fuckup that led to such tragedy, and it is still impacting us now.

“One final thing,” I say. “Charlie’s backpack, it was never found. He carried it with him most of the time. Did she mention that?”

“They threw it into the sea when they realized...that he wasn’t alive. I’ve no idea why it never reappeared.”

Somehow, that feels more calculated than anything else I’ve heard. It makes things sound even worse. If that’s possible. There’s so much to take in. As Deborah’s revelations properly begin to digest, they twist around in my mind. The word shock doesn’t even begin to describe the sick feeling permeating my entire body as images of Charlie’s last moments torment me, scene by scene, as I picture his body sinking beneath the water into darkness.

Back home, I tell Stuart that I don’t feel well. I lock the bathroom door and cry until it physically hurts.

Stuart coaxes me out.

“I understand your grief,” he says. “Nothing seems to make it better.”

“It is overwhelming,” I say. “But there’s so much, I really don’t know where to start. For one, why didn’t you tell me you were married before Nina?”

“I assumed you knew, that she’d have mentioned it?”

“No.”

“I was young. We both were, it was a mistake. When I fall, I fall hard.”

“Could it be her behind the hatred and mistrust of me? Was she jealous of Nina? Would she have somehow been hoping for a reconciliation?”

“Definitely not.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“She lives in Australia.”

“Still, are you certain?”

“I never check. We didn’t part on good terms.”

“Can I have her name, please? I need to check for myself.”

“If you must.”

I must.

While Stuart sleeps—deeply, how can he do that—I lie as close to the edge of the bed as I dare. My baby moves all the time as though he can sense my underlying, growing fear. Sleep remains elusive. I shiver with cold. I can’t get warm. It frightens me that something will go wrong with the pregnancy, that I’ll be punished somehow for all the mistakes I’ve made.

I get up. My search for his ex-wife reveals that there really is nothing to worry about. She is a travel journalist and does still live in Australia. From her stunning social media pictures, she most definitely does not appear to be mourning the loss of Stuart. I was barking up the wrong suspect tree with that theory.

Sleep eludes me as I go over past conversations and memories, coupled with my newfound knowledge, desperate for clues. Listening to Deborah, I got so caught up in her story, so convinced she had all the answers, that I didn’t think to question anything thoroughly.

Because, would Nina really have told her mother the absolute truth about Charlie’s demise? Nina was a natural editor; she regularly painted herself in a favorable light. Realistically, anyone would alter the story to make it palatable. Who would willingly incriminate themselves or tell their mother the raw, brutal facts rather than protect her? It’s a valid thought. Which means I can’t really trust Deborah’s version of events because the more I rerun through her words, the more they sound like a rehearsed, half story.