“I am focused,” I snap at him. Granted, I was focused on the idea of our son murdering people with his tail and feasting on their insides, but whatever.

“You need to get the door,” he says, steering me toward the stairs. “I need to see who called to make sure everything’s okay.”

His phone cuts off but immediately starts ringing again.

There’s a knock at the door.

We reach the bottom of the stairs, and before I can walk to the door, he spins me around and kisses me hard, mouth working over mine, the barest hints of his tongue on my lips. Pretty much everything short-circuits at that, like it normally does with him, even after all these years. I’m rather breathless when he pulls away and can’t even glare at the smug little twist in his smile.

“Good?” he asks me.

“Blargh,” I tell him.

“Good,” he says, pushing me toward the door. He turns to the living room, where his phone has started ringing again, and whoever it is better have a good goddamn reason for blowing up his phone like that.

The doorbell rings again.

“Huh,” I hear Otter say. “It’s Megan.”

Which, honestly, given that she just had another OB appointment (it’s like she’s going daily), is not making me feel any better. I don’t know how parents of serial killers ever show their faces in public again. I mean, what the hell would the neighbors think?

The phone rings again.

There’s a pounding on the door.

I open it just as I hear Otter say, “Is everything okay, Megan?”

I’m thinking about how things are changing.

I’m thinking about how we’re having a kid.

I’m thinking about how I would go to the ends of the earth for the man standing in the living room.

I’m thinking about my brother, who is finally coming home.

I’m thinking about his boyfriend, who I think knows the surprise Otter and I have, even though we’ve been trying to keep it a secret.

I’m thinking about my best friend and his wife. How happy they’re going to be for us.

I’m thinking about their parents, who will love this kid so much that he’ll never be alone.

I’m thinking about a lovely, crazy, beautiful old woman who had gathered us up in her arms and did her best to shelter us from the sharp edges of the world.

I’m thinking about everything we’ve gone through to get to this point.

But I’m not thinking about her. Even though she was the catalyst for it all, never her.

She’s no longer part of my vocabulary. She doesn’t have the right to be.