Dakota had shot Nigel. Nigel was dead. She hauled herself to her feet, closing her eyes against the pain chewing at her brain. Strips of severed duct tape clung to her clothes and she brushed them off. Had Dakota cut her free? When she was upright, she took a few tentative steps forward until she had a clear view into the apartment. Terry Russel was no figment of her imagination; the old woman lay sideways with her back to Winnie. A groan came from somewhere deep in Winnie’s throat where she tasted blood and bile. Where was her brother—why would Dakota do this? The nausea unfolded and Winnie doubled over, thinking she was going to be sick. Had he cut her hands free? No. She didn’t have time to be sick. Straightening up, Winnie started to stumble forward. She had to find Samuel—her miracle baby, her baby—not Josalyn’s. She’d prayed to God for a child, like Hannah had in the Bible, even though she’d not felt worthy to be a mother after what she’d done. And then, when she’d found out she was pregnant shortly after that horrible night, it was like God had forgiven her, he’d trusted her with her own baby. She’d done a terrible thing to Josalyn Russel, and she’d been too much of a coward to make herself accountable for what she’d done, but Samuel was hers alone. She reached the foyer, stepping over Nigel, refusing to look at him. She didn’t want to think about Josalyn right now. The front door was wide open, furniture scattered and shoved in corners like someone had kicked it around in a hurry. From outside came the sounds of sirens gusting into the house along with cold, fresh air. Gasping at the feel of it on her skin, Winnie stepped across the threshold, waving her arms at the help that was finally pulling up from every direction. Mr. Nevins stood at the edge of the lawn, arms hanging limply at his sides, his face washed of color. She broke eye contact with him to watch as the police ran across her lawn, their weapons drawn.

“Please, please help my son! Please!” she screamed, even as they yelled at her to get down. Winnie looked back at the house as police officers swarmed around and past her, through her open front door. Would they find her brother inside or had he run out before her?

Everything that followed was a blur of voices and faces until the medics tried to load her into an ambulance. She screamed Samuel’s name until one of the paramedics, a Black woman with close-cropped white hair, spoke so firmly to Winnie she stopped struggling.

“You can’t be anyone’s mother if you’re dead. Are you hearing me right now?”