“Like surrogacy.”

He shifted his body underneath me. “Seems complicated.”

“Not always. It’s exhilarating to create a life. And for some women, it’s the best thing they’ve ever done.” I kissed his neck. “I would enjoy doing it.”

“What?” he said.

I breathed into his neck. “I would enjoy doing it.”

“No!” He laughed and pulled on a strand of my hair.

“Why not?” I found it hard to swallow, as if my throat were swollen.

“No way, José.” He pulled away from me so he could look at my face. Maybe he was trying to assess whether I was joking.

I didn’t have enough saliva in my mouth. “I loved being pregnant.”

He seemed to recognize that I was serious; the smile on his face vanished. “What if I want you for myself?”

Ian had grown too attached to me. I hadn’t judged the situation accurately. He didn’t want to lose my body to the Straubs and the Straubs’ baby. I was angry with myself for my shortsightedness. Still, he was my primary connection to the Straubs, and I needed him.

I had a chance to reestablish myself in the Straubs’ lives and a possibility of claiming a permanent place. In the last two weeks, I’d grown to understand how crucial it was for me to cement my relationship with them. I had a vision of myself as the central source of power in their home and family, without which nothing could function—essential to their well-being and indispensable.

In the morning, I sent Amelia a text. Hope you’re feeling OK.

She didn’t respond.

The following day, I sent another one: Thinking of you.

She didn’t respond.

The day after, I wrote: I would love to visit you and see Natalie. Picking up the dry cleaning. If OK, I’ll swing by and drop it off.

This time, she wrote back: Sure.

In less than a minute, my coat and boots were on and I was out the door—on my way to see Amelia again.

I rang the doorbell, dry cleaning in hand. Amelia answered the door. My joy in seeing her was swiftly undercut by the silhouette of a pregnant Lucia behind her and down the hallway. Why was Lucia in the house? I took it as a bad sign. The chorus of “London Bridge Is Falling Down” (which I’d heard at a recent birthday party) was stuck in my head. I once read that the lyrics had to do with burying children alive in the foundation of the bridge as a sacrifice.

Lucia looked much more pregnant than she had two weeks earlier, but she also appeared more sophisticated and poised. She was wearing a subtle brown eye shadow as opposed to bright purple. The new and improved Lucia likely posed a greater threat to me.

I feared she might bring up our email exchange.