“You’ve been busy,” she heard herself say out loud. Snooping was wrong, but what was the harm in taking a little peek—it wasn’t like she was some stranger off the street. Once upon a time, she’d been a bona fide psychologist, for God’s sake. She felt a wave of excitement that didn’t have anything to do with being a psychologist. It was a familiar feeling; she’d spent thirty years digging and plowing through people’s brains—learning their secrets and hearing the ugliest desires of their hearts. She may be retired, but her lust for knowledge had never gone away.

The first draft Juno clicked on was titled: Pretty Sure I’m Adopted.

Sam had said this to her in the park, too, and she’d responded lightly. In a clinical setting, Juno would brush this off, too; adolescents went through a period where they felt disconnected from everything, even the people who loved them most. Juno compared it to a young lion learning to roar, picking fights, feeling insecure but acting volatile.

But this particular blog entry had never made it past one sentence. Sam, new to adult words, had described his feelings in one staggering fritz of emotion: Wolves know when they’re being raised by bears.

She stared at the words. Rolled them around in her head, where they gelled together with his cryptic phrases at the park, the words in Winnie’s journal. “Day after day, it eats me.”

7

WINNIE

The dinner was tradition. Last year it was at Don and Malay’s, the year before that it was at the Parklands’, and this year it was the Crouches’ turn. Vicky Parkland called to confirm on Monday evening just as Winnie was getting home from work.

“Friendsgiving. You didn’t forget, did you? You did.”

“I didn’t,” Winnie said confidently. “This is me we’re talking about.”

She had forgotten.

“Yeah, you do live for a party,” Vicky agreed. “I just hadn’t heard anything and—”

Winnie rolled her eyes. Vicky was calling because she heard about Dakota. Today, Winnie was the tea.

“Things have just been…there’s been drama…”

She could hear Vicky walking into her bedroom and closing the door. Mack must be home, she thought. Vicky never gossiped in front of Mack, who thought it was crass. Winnie walked into her own bedroom; Nigel wasn’t home yet. She loved the way the room smelled: a mixture of wood polish, orange blossom, and her and Nigel. But today, as she stepped inside, she smelled something else—something she wasn’t used to smelling in their space. She hesitated on the threshold, looking around uncertainly. She’d made their bed this morning, arranging the throw pillows the way she liked them; now one of them was lying on the floor next to the nightstand. She walked over and picked it up. Could it have just fallen off?