No, she couldn’t believe it. She felt it. He was alive.

It had to have been her. She had to have been the one doing something wrong. And it wasn’t going to happen again. She would do better this time around. She was older now, more mature. She had tried it before. She could do it differently. If only she knew what she had done wrong the first time around. She had tried to ask Damian but received no answer. She would have to figure it out by herself. Somehow.

“I won’t fail you this time,” she whispered, months later, on the night when the contractions started. She recognized them from the last time and let them happen. Let her body take control. She screamed in pain and gave birth all alone. The night became long and strenuous, but finally, it happened. Kitty held her tiny baby in her arms, cradling its fragile body, feeling a profound love more powerful and deeper than anything she had ever experienced before. She looked into the little eyes of the newborn and promised to protect and nurture her.

“I won’t let them take you as well, little baby,” she whispered, stroking her daughter’s face gently.

Kitty had never felt so connected to someone before. Except for Oliver, of course. Even though she was exhausted, she stayed up all night with the baby, not wanting to let go of the moment. She shed tears of joy and relief that she had made it.

The sun slowly rose in the sky outside, quickly warming up the shed, and when Damian walked in the next morning, he found Kitty and the baby in the same position. His eyes widened with surprise and wonder as he looked at her. As Damian approached her, he noticed the bloodstains on the bed. He looked up at her, his gaze meeting hers, as he saw the newborn baby in her arms.

“Is everything okay?” he asked with a hint of worry in his voice.

She nodded, tears streaming down her face. He walked over to her slowly, his eyes never leaving the baby, and knelt down beside her.

“You did it,” he said softly, his voice filled with admiration.

She looked up at him, a small smile spreading across her lips.

“We did it,” she replied, her eyes never leaving the tiny bundle in her arms.

Damian’s eyes widened with shock and happiness. He reached out and took the baby, and even if it filled her with fear, Kitty didn’t fight him. She was simply too tired. He held the baby in his arms, looking down at her tiny features.

“She’s beautiful,” he said with a smile.

She watched as Damian held their little girl, scared he wouldn’t give her back, but too tired to fight it. The exhaustion soon caught up with her and she felt herself drifting off to sleep, trying hard to stay awake. The last thing she remembered was Damian placing the baby back in her arms and kissing her on the forehead. Then she could finally let go and fall asleep.

When she woke up, she found herself alone in the shed. Panic set in fast. It was rushing through her body as she sat up and looked around. Where was Damian? And more important, where was the baby? She got out of bed and stumbled toward the door, her legs feeling weak and unsteady.

“Damian? Damian?”

No, no, no! This can’t be happening. It can’t be happening again!

She hammered on the bolted door, fists clenched tightly, as fear twisted in her gut. After a few minutes of fruitless pounding, she stopped, realizing that no one could hear her. She had been in there long enough to know that.

Fear consumed her and she collapsed onto the concrete floor. As she sat there, sobbing, she tried to piece together what had happened. Had Damian taken their baby away from her? Was she ever going to see her child again?

What had she done to deserve this?

What had she done wrong?

SIXTY-SIXBILLIE ANN

As I stepped through the doorway of my home, dread slowly crept upon me. My feet carried me to the kitchen for a glass of wine, and one soon led to another, while trying to forget, to drown out all the noise. Yet with each glass I moved closer and closer toward an agonizing decision. One I wasn’t willing to make. Through the window, I saw the serene waters of the canal, boats peacefully drifting by, their lanterns guiding them like fireflies in the night. But despite its tranquility, turmoil was brewing inside of me—should I recant my rape statement against Travis? A million thoughts flooded my mind at once. What would be the consequences if I changed my story? Would he do it to someone else? Even while wheelchair-bound, his sadistic nature made him more than capable of harming another innocent soul. Speaking out for justice had been a major struggle; could I bear to go back on my words now? They had been like family to me. Travis, Betty, both of them. Telling what happened had been the hardest thing I had ever done. No, I couldn’t go back on it, I refused to.

But what would happen to Charlene if I didn’t? Her life could risk getting ruined. Her future. How could I live with myself?

I began to weep. Hiding my face in my hands, I let the tears roll.

Joe was already in bed, but he came downstairs when he heard me cry.

“Is that you, Billie Ann?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep. He walked down the stairs, staring at me, scrutinizing me. “Have you been drinking?”

I sobbed in response, my legs giving out beneath me, and I slumped onto the couch. Joe scrambled over to me and sat down next to me, his pale blue eyes wide with concern, but also angry.

“What’s going on with you?” he said. “I can barely recognize you anymore.”

“I had wine, I needed it.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, leaning back in the couch and facing away from me. He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shook his head with a sigh. “Nothing. I’m just… well, I don’t want to start anything now. It’s late and I’m exhausted so—”

“Something happened, Joe,” I said. “Something awful.”

He looked at me, head tilted slightly, eyes narrow. “What happened?”

“Travis,” I said, sobbing slightly.

A frown grew between his eyes. “Your ex-partner? What did he do now?”

“I got suspended today.”

He shook his head, startled. “What? Why?”

“Because of Travis. They think I hit him with my truck, that I put him in a wheelchair. They’re investigating it. They think I have a vendetta against him.”

“I’m confused. You don’t have a truck,” he said.

“I know. That’s what worries me.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Charlene has a truck. It’s registered in my name. For insurance, you know?”

He stared at me, biting his lip. “No, no, that’s—”

I placed a hand on his arm. “It’s true. I think she did it. But I can make a deal with him, he said.”

“Really? What kind of deal?”

I looked down at my fingers. The buzz from the wine was quickly wearing off now, and reality hit me again like a brick wall. “If I take back my statement. About the rape.”

He sat up straight. “What?”

“He wants me to say that I lied. He wants me to clear his name.”