By twenty-nine weeks pregnant, I had stopped calling it an attic.

The paramedic's name was Sasha.

She was young and efficient and she didn't ask me questions I didn't want to answer.

She checked my blood pressure, listened to the baby's heartbeat, and said, "Strong.

Both of you."

I cried then.

Not loudly.

Just a few seconds, turned toward the window so she wouldn't feel obligated to respond.

She handed me a bottle of water and didn't comment on it, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for me in months.

They took Derek and Lorraine out separately.

I watched from the doorway.

Lorraine walked to the patrol car with her chin up, her coat straight, her face arranged into something that was almost dignity.

At the car door she turned and looked back at the house — not at me, at the house itself — the way you look at something you built and are not finished with yet.

Derek didn't look back at all.

Reyes stayed behind with me.

We sat at the kitchen table — Lorraine's kitchen table, with Lorraine's placemats and Lorraine's ceramic fruit bowl — and Reyes laid out what they had.

"The livestream your mother-in-law was running," she said, "was monetized."

I looked up.

"She had approximately 800 regular viewers.

She was selling access to a premium tier.

Fifty dollars a month.

The content was marketed as—" Reyes paused.

"As a documentary series.

About managing a difficult family member during a high-risk pregnancy."

The ceramic fruit bowl sat between us.

Fake apples.

Fake pears.

Everything in this house had always been slightly fake.

"How much did she make?" I said.

"In eleven weeks?

Just over fourteen thousand dollars."

I put my hands flat on the table.

"She was also in contact with a private adoption facilitator," Reyes continued.

"The documentation she mentioned — the psychiatric records — those were part of a broader effort to establish grounds for a custody removal after the birth.

The plan, as best we can reconstruct it, was to have you declared unfit within the first seventy-two hours postpartum."

"And Derek knew."

Reyes was quiet for a moment.

"He knew about the stream.

He participated in the stream.

Whether he knew the full scope of the adoption arrangement—" She chose her words carefully.

"That's still being determined."

"He said 'I know' upstairs," I said.

"When your officer was talking to him."

"I heard."

"What does that mean for him?"

"It means he has a decision to make," Reyes said.

"About how cooperative he wants to be."

My phone — the small one from the baby wipes pack — was still upstairs.

I thought about Patrice, sitting somewhere outside in her car or at home at her kitchen table, watching the second stream close down, knowing it had worked.

"Can I call someone?" I said.

"Of course."

"I need to call my sister.

She doesn't know any of this.

I told her I was fine because I was afraid of what they'd do if—" I stopped.

"I need to call my sister."

Reyes slid her own phone across the table.

I dialed.

It rang twice.

"Hello?"

"Becca," I said.

"It's me.