THE BED SHE WAS TOO ANGRY TO CHECK

CHAPTER 1 — THE BED SHE WAS TOO ANGRY TO CHECK

Eleanor Whitcomb went upstairs with a stick in her hand.

Not a cane.

A stick.

A polished wooden switch she kept by the back door for stray dogs, stubborn weeds, and, that morning, the new daughter-in-law she had already decided was lazy.

It was nearly eleven.

The house was too quiet for the morning after a wedding. Downstairs, coffee had gone cold in the silver pot. The breakfast casserole sat untouched. Two aunts had already called to ask whether the bride had come down yet, and Eleanor had lied with a tight little laugh.

“She’s resting,” she said.

But resting was not the word she used in her own mind.

Spoiled.

That was the word.

Lila had arrived at the Whitcomb house six months earlier with soft manners, long dark hair, and a way of looking at Adrian that made Eleanor feel like she had been pushed out of her own son’s life before the vows were even said.

Eleanor told herself she was only protective.

Most cruel mothers do.

She reached the upstairs bridal bedroom and did not knock.

“Wake up, Lila!” she snapped, pushing the door open. “It’s almost eleven.”

Soft daylight slipped through the curtains. The room still carried the messy evidence of the wedding night: a white veil over the chair, Adrian’s cufflink on the dresser, one champagne flute near the window, flowers wilting in a vase.

Lila lay motionless in bed.

Her long dark hair spread across the pillow. Her white nightgown showed at one shoulder. The blanket covered her from the waist down.

Eleanor’s mouth tightened.

She crossed the room, breathing hard.

“I will not have a bride sleeping half the day in my house.”

Lila did not move.

That should have stopped her.

It did not.

Eleanor reached the bed and yanked the blanket back.

“Enough of this laziness—”

The words died in her throat.

The bedsheets were soaked red.

Not a little. Not some small mark that could be explained away with a blush and a whisper.

Blood had spread across the white cotton beneath Lila’s legs and hips, dark at the center, lighter where it had seeped outward.

Eleanor froze.

The stick slipped from her fingers and hit the floor.

“Oh God…”

For one long second, she could not understand what she was seeing because understanding would require admitting she had walked into the room with anger before concern.

Then Lila’s lips parted.

Barely.

A breath came out thin as thread.

Eleanor dropped to the mattress.

“Lila?”

She touched the girl’s shoulder. Cold.

Too cold.

“Lila, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Eleanor pressed trembling fingers to Lila’s neck, searching for a pulse the way she had seen nurses do in movies. She found one, faint and frighteningly slow.

Her own breath broke.

“No. No, no, no.”

She turned toward the hallway.

“Adrian!”

Her voice cracked against the old walls.

No answer.

The newlyweds were supposed to have left for the mountains by noon. Adrian had been drinking with his cousins until almost three in the morning, celebrating like a boy too young to know marriage could turn serious before the flowers died.

Eleanor reached for the bedside phone, then stopped.

Beside the untouched glass of water was a folded paper.

It had been placed there carefully.

Not dropped.

Placed.

Eleanor picked it up with shaking hands.

At first, she saw only the clinic logo. Then Lila’s name. Then one printed word near the middle of the page.

Positive.

Pregnant.

The room tilted.

Eleanor pressed one hand to her mouth.

Pregnant.