The back door opened.
A few seconds later, it closed again.
“Greg?” I called out.
Silence.
Then I heard the downstairs dead bolt turn.
I ran down the stairs barefoot.
The guest-room door stood wide open, but Greg wasn’t there.
The rocking chair we’d used when Michael and Emma were babies was moving gently beside the window.
Back. Forward. Back.
My heart started to pound.
The guest-room door stood wide open, but Greg wasn’t there.
Then the porch light came on.
I crossed the kitchen, pulled the curtain aside, and froze.
Greg was kneeling in the flower bed in his pajamas.
He had something bundled against his chest with one arm.
Something small.
Something wrapped in the blue knitted blanket my mother had made when Michael was born.
He had something bundled against his chest with one arm.
And with his other hand, my husband was digging a hole.
“Greg?”
He jerked around so fast that dirt flew from the little garden shovel.
“Laura!”
I threw open the back door.
“What are you doing?”
“Stop shouting!”
“Why are you digging a hole at two in the morning?”
And with his other hand, my husband was digging a hole.
The bundle against his chest moved.
I stopped.
Greg tightened his arm around it.
“You’re scaring her.”
“Her?”
He pulled back one corner of Michael’s blanket.
A tiny gray face appeared.
Two furious little eyes stared at me.
The bundle against his chest moved.
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