Wendy returns to Jane’s window. The inspectors from Scotland Yard have come and gone. For hours her house has been filled with men’s voices—their rough laughter when they were unaware of her listening, their questions that she can give no answers to, the stink of tobacco clinging to their uniforms and skin. She hates every last one of them. Now, only her father-in-law remains, and she hates him most of all.

Ned’s father arrived with the inspectors, without Wendy or Ned having spoken to him about what occurred. Wendy can’t help but believe that her father-in-law arranged with the chief inspector—a personal friend—that he would be contacted immediately should any emergency calls originate from their house. Anger simmers beneath her weariness, made worse by the fact that she can say none of this aloud. Silently, she curses her father-in-law, and curses Scotland Yard for spineless cowardice.

As if she and Ned are insufficient on their own to keep their household safe. The thought brings bitter laughter, but Wendy traps it behind her lips. Oh, but she is insufficient. The knowledge twists blade-sharp, stealing her breath. She lost Jane. She let Peter steal her daughter away.

Wendy knots her fingers, staring at the darkened streets beyond Jane’s window. She is tired to the bone, and at the same time, sleep is the farthest thing from her mind. The inspectors and her father-in-law asked her dozens of questions, then asked them all over again to Ned. As if by virtue of his sex he must know more than she ever could. And all the while, questioning or silent, her father-in-law had glared at them both.

Untangling her fingers, Wendy wraps her arms around her upper body, holding onto her elbows to keep from flying apart.

She lied. To the men from Scotland Yard. To her father-in-law. Even to Ned. She told them she simply woke—a mother’s instinct—and came to her daughter’s room to find her gone. The aftertaste of dishonesty lies thick on her tongue. But what else could she say?

She’s been lying to Ned for years, withholding this one vital piece of truth. For eleven years she’s played at being a good wife, a good mother; there have been days she’s even managed to convince herself. But now it’s all falling apart, as much of a sham as her mothering of Peter and the boys in Neverland.

She chose this, she tried, and still she failed. It takes everything in Wendy not to shout, to hurl everything she can lay her hands on and scream the truth until her throat bleeds. She is not, and will not, ever be good enough for anything but lies and make-believe.