I could escape San Francisco with Kat. I could do that.

But I don’t have money and I don’t have access to Martin’s bank account. He only gives me what I need each week.

I could sell my sapphire ring and all the beautiful furniture in this house and take Kat back to Ireland . . . but, no, there are other complications there.

I need to know what happens next. What happens next? What do I do now?

First, that woman surely needs a drink of water. She has just thrown up on my rug.

Then we must talk.

I need to know who was married to Martin first. Who his legal wife is.

I grab a juice glass and fill it with water from the tap, all while keeping Kat close to me.

As she and I make our way back to the foyer, I lean down to speak to her. “The lady in the other room isn’t feeling well. I need to give her a drink of water, love. Can you go upstairs and play with your dollies while I help her?”

Kat shakes her head. No. She will not go play with her dollies. Her eyes are still wide with apprehension.

I bend down close. “Everything is going to be all right, I promise. I need you to go upstairs and wait for me.”

No.

I can’t make her go. And I won’t drag Kat up the stairs to her room. And, anyway, perhaps it is best if Belinda sees how much the child is devoted to me, just in case Belinda is Martin’s rightful wife, and therefore Kat’s rightful stepmother.

“All right,” I tell her. “Just for a few minutes.”

We enter the room. Belinda is sitting forward on the sofa, breathing heavily, eyes closed. I sit next to her. Kat, still standing, sidles up to me.

“Here,” I say, extending the glass of water.

Belinda opens her eyes. She looks at the glass, at me. At Kat. Fresh tears pool as she stares at my daughter. Then she turns her gaze away and glances at the vomit at her feet.

“I’m sorry about the mess.”

“It doesn’t matter. Here. Drink the water.”

Belinda reaches for the cup and drinks the water down.

I extend my hand for the empty glass. “More?”

She shakes her head and rubs at a tearstained cheek. “Who is that?” she says, nodding to Kat.

I put my arm around Kat’s middle and pull her inches closer. “This is Katharine. We call her Kat.”

Belinda stares at Kat for a moment as more tears puddle and then slide down her cheeks. “I don’t know what any of this means,” she says.

I regard her for a moment. “You’re sure the man in that photograph is your husband?”

A weak sob claws its way out of Belinda’s throat as she says, “Yes.”

“You’re quite sure?”

Belinda looks down at the portrait. The surface is vomit speckled, but Martin’s image is clear. “No one has eyes like that but him.”