He took the small bundle in his arms. “Grace,” he said. “Grace Mia Farraday.”

Lexi felt the pain of that. “I love you, Gracie,” she whispered, wishing she’d kissed her daughter one more time before she handed her over. “And Zach, I—”

There was a knock at the door. It was so loud it startled her.

“That will be my mom,” Zach said. “What were you going to say?”

Lexi shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

He paused, moved his gaze from the baby to Lexi. “I ruined everything,” he said softly.

She couldn’t find her voice, not even to say good-bye to her daughter or the boy she loved.

Jude had tried to prepare for this day. She told herself this would be it, the start of a new Jude, and so when Zach came out of Lexi’s hospital room, holding a pink-wrapped newborn, his eyes glazed with emotion, Jude felt hope rising within her, standing tall.

“Grace Mia Farraday,” Zach said.

“She’s gorgeous,” Miles said, coming up beside his son, cupping the baby’s small head in his long surgeon’s hand.

Jude looked down into her granddaughter’s small face, and time seemed to fall away.

For a second, she was a young mother herself, with a baby in each arm and Miles beside her.

Grace looked exactly like Mia.

The same bow-shaped lips and muddy blue eyes that would turn green, the same pointed chin and white-blond eyelashes. Jude drew back instinctively.

“Mom?” Zach said, looking up at her. “Do you want to hold her?”

Jude started to shake. The cold in her heart radiated out to her fingers, and she wished she’d brought a coat. “Of course.” She made herself smile and reach out, taking Mia—no, Grace—in her arms, holding her close.

Love her, she thought desperately, beginning to panic. Feel something.

But there was nothing. She stared down at her own granddaughter, this baby who looked enough like Mia to fool anyone, and Jude felt nothing at all.

Physically, Lexi healed quickly. Her boobs shrank back to their normal size, and her milk dried up. Within a month, a few pale silvery lines on her lower belly were the only evidence that she’d ever had a child.

She felt as faded as those marks. Pregnancy had changed her. A girl named Alexa Baill had gone into that hospital, chained to a bed, and given birth to the most beautiful baby in the world. She’d seen the boy she loved one last time. And then it was all gone, and an older, wiser Lexi had come back to Purdy.

Before, she’d been fragile, even hopeful; she saw that now, the way you saw a missing fence post. The lack stood out. She’d been damaged, broken by the terrible thing she’d done, but she’d believed in redemption, in the power of justice. She’d thought that going to prison would be an atonement and that with atonement she could be forgiven.

What a crock.

Her lawyer had been right. She should have fought the charges, said she was sorry and young and stupid.

Instead, she’d done the right thing and been crushed. She’d lost everything that mattered to her, but nothing hurt more than the loss of her child.

In the two months since Grace’s birth, Lexi had tried to hold on to who she was, but the best parts of her were draining away. Day after day, she attempted to write letters to her daughter, and each new failure stripped away a piece of her, until now there was so little left she felt transparent. Especially today.

She was in the yard, sitting on a bench beneath a pale denim sky. Over to her left, some khaki-clad women were playing basketball. The trees outside the prison were in full, vibrant bloom. Every now and then a pink blossom floated over the skeletal mountain of razor wire and landed on the ground like an impossibly kept promise.

“You look like someone who could use a boost.”

Lexi looked up. The woman standing there had a carrot-colored crew cut and a blue kerchief tied around her shorn head. A snake tattoo peeked out from her collar. She was a stocky woman with powerful hands and skin that looked like someone had scrubbed at her cheeks with steel wool.

Lexi knew who this woman was. Everyone did. Her nickname, Smack, said it all.

Lexi got slowly to her feet. In all the time she’d been here, she’d never spoken to Smack. There was only one reason women befriended Smack, and once you started talking to her, you never stopped.

“I can make your pain go away,” Smack said.

Lexi knew it was wrong, dangerous to listen to that promise, but she couldn’t help herself. This pain of hers was unbearable, especially today. “How much?”

Smack smiled slowly, revealing black, ugly teeth. Meth. Mouths like that were a dime a dozen in here. “For the first time? A sweet thing like you? I think—”

“You get the hell away from her, Smack.”

Lexi saw Tamica barreling this way like a mama grizzly bear. She put a paw-sized hand on Lexi’s chest and pushed her aside hard. Lexi stumbled, almost fell. She regained her balance quickly and surged forward. “This is my business, Tamica. You can’t tell me what to do.”

Tamica went toe-to-toe with Smack. “Back off or I’ll take you apart like cheap-ass furniture.”

Lexi pushed in between the women. “I need it,” she said to Tamica, almost pleading. “I can’t stand it anymore. I don’t want to feel anything.”

“Hold out your hand,” Smack whispered.

“No,” Tamica said. “I won’t let you do this, hermana.”

Lexi made a roaring, wailing sound of pure unadulterated pain and punched Tamica in the nose.

A whistle blew.

Smack slipped two pills into Lexi’s hand and then ran so fast it was as if she’d never been there.

“You crazy?” Tamica said, stumbling back. “I don’t know why I care about you.”

“I don’t either. I never asked you to.”

“Hermana,” Tamica said, sighing. “I know how much it hurts.”

“Do you? A year ago today I killed my best friend.”

Two guards stepped in between them and pushed Lexi away from Tamica. “Back up, Baill.”

“I fell,” Tamica said.

“Nice try, Hernandez,” one of the guards said. “I saw the whole thing. Come on, Baill.”

Lexi knew where they were taking her, knew and didn’t care. Yesterday she would have said that nothing scared her more than going to The Hole, but now, on the anniversary of Mia’s death, in a world where Lexi had had a child and lost her, it barely warranted a sigh.

They led her down one hallway after another, finally coming to a small, windowless room. When the door opened, Lexi got a whiff of urine and filth and she started to panic, to turn away.

“Too late,” the guard nearest her said, giving her a shove inside. There was a rough steel-gray blanket on a metal bed. The mattress and pillow were made of old, misshapen rubber. The only opening in the door was the size of a TV remote. Food probably came through that slot three times a day.

Lexi stood in the darkness, shivering suddenly, although it wasn’t cold. The stench of the cell was making her eyes water.

“You’re here,” one of the guards said. “Learn something.”

The door clanged shut, and she was in the dark.

Lexi stood there, freezing already. She opened her palm. It was too dark to see the pills, but she felt them. She put them in her mouth and swallowed them without water. It took a while for them to take effect, but finally a calm settled over her. She closed her eyes and forgot all about Mia’s off-key singing and Zach’s promise of love and Grace’s mewling baby sounds. She sat on the cell’s rubber mattress staring at nothing, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, just passing through time that felt interminable.

Part Two

Though nothing can bring back the hour

of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not; rather find

strength in what remains behind.

—WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ODE:

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY

FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

Eighteen

2010

From a distance, the Farraday family appeared to have healed. Miles, the renowned surgeon, was back to doing what he did best, and if he spent too many hours in the OR, it seemed right that he should save as many lives as he could. Zach had surprised everyone who knew him by blistering through both junior college and the University of Washington; he’d graduated in three years and started medical school a year early. Now he was in his second year, and his grades were stellar. He had moved into a rental house on the island, and he did two things in his life: school and fatherhood. He seemed not to care that he had no time for a social life. Islanders spoke of him with pride, saying how tragedy had shaped him, and how well he’d risen to the challenge of fatherhood.

And then there was Jude.

For years, she had tried to reclaim the woman she’d been before her daughter’s death. She’d done what was asked of her, what was expected. She’d gone to support groups and therapists. She’d taken Xanax and Zoloft and Prozac at various times. She’d slept too much and then too little. She’d lost too much weight. Mostly, she’d learned that some pain simply could neither be cured nor ignored nor healed.

Time hadn’t healed her wounds. What a crock of shit that little cliché was. The kind of thing lucky people said to those who were less fortunate. Those same lucky people thought that talking about grief helped, and they thought nothing of telling you to “try to get on with your life.”

Finally, she’d stopped expecting to feel better, and that was when she found a way to live. She couldn’t control her grief or her life or much of anything, really (that was what she knew now), but she could control her emotions.

She was careful. Deliberate.

Brittle.

That most of all. She was like an antique porcelain vase that had been broken and painstakingly repaired. Every scar was visible up close, and only the gentlest touch could be used in handling the piece, but from a distance, from across the room, in the right light, it looked whole.

She followed a rigid routine; she’d learned that a schedule could save her. A to-do list could be the framework for a life. Wake up. Shower. Make coffee. Pay bills. Go to the grocery store … the post office … the dry cleaners. Put gas in the car.

This was how she moved through the hours of every day. She cut and styled her hair even though she didn’t care how she looked; she wore makeup; she dressed carefully. Otherwise, people would frown at her, lean closer, and say, “How are you, really?”

Better to look healthy and keep moving. On most days, that worked for her. She woke up and made it through the interminable daylight. On weekdays, she fed her granddaughter breakfast and drove her to kindergarten. A few hours later, she picked Grace up from the elementary school and dropped her off at the afternoon day care program that allowed Zach to spend his days in medical school.

Jude had learned that if she focused on the minutiae of life, she could keep her grief at bay.

Most days, anyway. Today, though, no amount of pretending could protect her.

Tomorrow was the sixth anniversary of Mia’s death.