Pam laughs as she steps outside. “We found the cutest recipes to make little bunny rabbits from this kid’s cookbook. She’s really enjoying cooking lately.”

“What’s going on?” Crystal interrupts.

“What’s going on with what?”

“With you? With Savi? With…” She motions toward the house. Crystal folds her arms and glances toward the street to wave to Parker, an eighty-five-year-old who walks five miles per day, rain or shine. A sprinkler hisses next door. Crystal eyes their own lawn, desperately in need of watering, and drags her gaze back to Pam.

“Something’s different with Savi.” Pam verbalizes what she’s been thinking. Something is different.

“What?”

Pam gathers her unruly hair in a bun then releases it. A few ginger strands flutter toward the front porch. “I need to tell you something.” She takes a shaky breath.

Crystal holds her own breath, expecting her to confess something terrible.

“When you mentioned Paul’s things had gone missing, I felt terrible.” She lowers her voice and eyes the front door. “I didn’t want to upset Savi, but I was putting her magic kit away, and I found them hidden in one of the compartments. The stuff you mentioned. There was a journal too. And a business book. I didn’t want to get her in more trouble with everything going on, so I left them there.” She stares at her feet like a child. “I can show you.”

The truth lands like a fist. Not that Savi took Paul’s items, but that her own daughter lied straight to her face. Before she can respond, the front door opens.

“Your phone.” Savi wags Crystal’s cell. She fingers her back pocket. Savi must have swiped it. She bites back a scream. “You have a text from Ms. Rebecca.”

She shoves down Pam’s confession and reads the text. “I’ve got to go.” She dashes inside to grab her keys and brushes past Pam.

“Is everything okay?” Pam asks.

“Can I come too, Mom?”

“No, stay here,” Crystal says. “I’ll be back soon.” She looks at Pam. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

She stabs her keys in the ignition and hurries to Bec’s house.

She hopes she’s not too late.

37

BEC

I’m sure I haven’t heard him right. “Beth bought that onesie? For Trevor?”

“Trevor is her son, correct?” Jake asks.

I nod. “Yes, and he’s the same age as Jackson.” I catalogue all of our recent conversations: Beth, constantly complaining about her child, wishing for a little space, making comments about Jackson never fussing. I grab his forearm. “She just made a joke the other day about us trading babies.”

“Why didn’t you mention that?”

I shake my head. “Because the baby upstairs isn’t Trevor.”

“How do you know that for certain, Rebecca?”