Chapter 15: The Guest House

The last time I saw Linnea she had been glassy and slow, and tonight she was standing on her own.

She wore a gray cardigan over a nightgown, with one hand on the doorframe and the other under her belly.

Her hair hung past her waist.

Her eyes were the same blue as her brother's, and this time they landed on me fast.

"You came," she said.

"The nurse brought me."

"I know. I asked her."

She stepped back and let me in.

The guest house had a kitchen, a bed, a window and a bare wall where something had once hung.

A viola case lay open on the table with the strings loosened.

"They took the bow," Linnea said. "Margo said the sound upset the baby."

"Does it?"

"She kicks when I play. Margo has never been pregnant, so she wouldn't know."

I sat at the table, and she lowered herself into the other chair.

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

Then she laughed, a small cracked sound.

"We're both pregnant by the same husband in the same house," she said. "We should say something clever."

"I don't have anything clever."

"Me neither. I haven't had a clever thought in four months."

"Why not?"

She slid a pill bottle across the table.

The label said Linnea Winfield, three times daily, anxiety.

"I don't have anxiety," she said. "I had a husband who locked a gate."

"Tate told me you'd decided to stay."

"That's what he tells everyone."

She turned the bottle in her hands.

"We met at a concert. He said he loved music. He sat in the front row for a month."

"We got married at the courthouse. He said his father would cut him off if he found out. He said we'd wait a year."

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