Marcus had ordered her not to go.
He could throw her out. Send her back. Leave her on the road with nothing.
But the sound upstairs wasn’t a demand.
It was surrender.
Janelle climbed.
Each step creaked like the house was warning her.
At the loft doorway she paused, heart pounding.
The baby lay in the crib, unwrapped, tiny limbs barely moving. His lips were faintly blue. His chest rose so shallow it looked like a trick of light.
Janelle crossed the room and touched his hand.
Cold.
Too cold.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
She lifted him carefully. He was too light, like he was already becoming absence.
She held him against her chest and felt his breath, faint as a moth.
Milk soaked warm through her dress. Her hands shook.
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