Belinda, no longer a statue, shakes her head. “It’s him.” At the sound of her own voice the photograph slips from her hands and she falls back onto the sofa as if pushed. The frame hits the rug, and a corner splits and splinters off. The moment feels made of taffy, like it’s being pulled and stretched and thinned. Part of me wants to reach for the fallen picture and part wants to reach for the woman who has collapsed onto my sofa, pale as chalk.

And then as I stand in that elongated moment, I see Kat at the doorway to the sitting room, watching. I don’t know how long she’s been standing there. Time seems to kick itself back into motion when I see my daughter.

“Kat!” I call out to her. “Wait right there!”

Kat obeys, but she is not looking at me. She is staring wide-eyed at the pregnant woman on the sofa, who has one hand on her swollen abdomen and another across her face.

Then, with a jerk, Belinda pitches forward and vomits onto the Oriental rug in front of her, and onto the portrait of Martin and me.

I dash over to Kat, put my arm protectively around her, and draw her away from the spectacle in the sitting room and into the kitchen.

I yank the kettle off the flame, and for a blissful moment there is silence. I place my hands on the countertop and lean my weight on my outstretched arms, letting the soundlessness wash over me.

I need a moment to think. Many moments. My thoughts are spinning madly and I can’t seem to harness even one of them. Martin has another wife. She is pregnant with his child. He has another wife. He has another name. All those days and nights on the road while he’s working, he’s in another house. Another bed. He is sleeping with another woman. Having relations with her. Not just with prostitutes. Not just with me. I am married to a man who has another wife. Not dead Candace. Another wife entirely. One who is alive. A wife who cares for him. I saw it in Belinda’s eyes just now, at that terrible moment she realized her husband has been lying to her in the worst possible way.

Kat leans against my hip. I look down at her and see fear. I put an arm about her.

“It’s all right, love,” I coo, but my voice sounds unsure. And even as the words leave my mouth I wonder which of us—Belinda or me—is rightfully married to Martin. Is Kat my stepdaughter or isn’t she? In the eyes of the law, is she still mine?

I pull her even closer. I’ll clobber Martin with an iron skillet if he tries to take Kat from me. I swear it. I don’t love him, I don’t want him, but I want this child. I love this child.

My chest is heaving with anger and rage and dread and other emotions I don’t know the names of. Everything within me is pressing me to do something. Now.