THE NIGHT THE SHED OPENED

Kristin remained on her knees until the shed stopped spinning.

She forced herself to breathe slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Dr. Patel's voice returned to her from an appointment weeks earlier: if you feel faint, lower yourself safely, protect your head, do not try to stand too quickly.

Her baby.

She placed both hands against her abdomen. No pain. No bleeding. Her heart raced, but gradually the darkness at the edges of her vision receded.

Rain battered the roof. Water forced its way through the gaps in the boards and ran in thin streams across the floor.

"Ethan!"

The storm swallowed her voice.

She checked the pockets of her dress. Georgia had taken her phone, but not the small steel key hidden beneath the insole of her flat shoe. Kristin had carried it since the discovery of Rachel's letter, unwilling to leave the last object Rachel had entrusted to Ethan inside the house.

The floor plan was clear in her memory.

Seventh board. Rain channel. Lower left corner.

Georgia had moved the workbench over the corner after the police search. Kristin pushed against it. The heavy wood shifted less than an inch.

She tried again, bracing her back against the wall and driving with her legs. The bench scraped across the floor.

Beneath it, two newer boards covered the old channel. Ethan had loosened them earlier, then replaced them at Park's request. Kristin pulled the first one free.

The second had swollen in the rain.

She found a rusted pry bar beneath the bench and worked its edge into the seam. The board lifted. Mud and black water filled the cavity below.

No box.

Kristin lay on her side and reached into the channel. Her fingers met dirt, stones, and one rotted wooden brace. She stretched farther until the edge of the floor pressed painfully against her shoulder.

Metal touched her fingertips.

The box was beyond reach.

Outside, the back door opened.

Georgia crossed the porch. "Where is the key?"

Kristin pulled her arm from the channel and replaced the loose board as quietly as she could.

"The police have it."

"You lied to me at the house."

"You kidnapped me. I don't owe you honesty."

The brass lock rattled. "Martin is coming. He knows how to remove the box without damaging it. Once we have it, this is over."

"Does he know you left proof on the camera?"

Georgia went silent.

Kristin continued, louder now. "We saw you change the vitamins. We heard you admit what you did. Ethan knows everything."

"He knows what you showed him."

"He knows you sold Rachel's baby."

Georgia struck the door with both hands. "I saved Ethan! Daniel said he would take both children if I refused. Rachel had already ruined herself, but Ethan still had a future. I signed one paper to keep my son."

"And then you lied to him for twenty-seven years."

"I protected him."

"No. You protected the version of yourself you wanted him to love."

The lock stopped moving.

When Georgia spoke again, her voice was low. "You think love makes you brave. Wait until someone forces you to choose which child survives."

"There was always another choice. You were just afraid of what it would cost you."

Georgia walked away.

Kristin listened until the rain covered her footsteps. Then she removed both boards, tied one end of a torn strip from her dress around the pry bar, and lowered it into the channel. On the fourth attempt, the hooked end caught the box handle.

She pulled.

Mud held the box like cement. Kristin shifted her grip and pulled again. The cloth cut into her palms. The metal moved an inch, then another.

A floor support cracked.

The corner dropped suddenly. Kristin rolled away as mud, water, and broken wood collapsed into the cavity. The blue steel box slid into view.

RACHEL A. COLE had been scratched across the lid.

The small key fit.

Inside, waterproof bags protected ledgers, photographs, birth records, and three microcassettes. The first ledger listed dates, mothers' names, infants' sexes, and payments. More than forty entries filled the pages.

Beside Rachel's name, someone had written Refused. Transfer incomplete.

Another document was a bus ticket issued two days after Rachel gave birth. The destination was Portland. On the back, in Rachel's handwriting, were the words June was right. Georgia opened the rear door.

Kristin understood.

Georgia had not merely signed the papers. She had eventually helped Rachel escape.

That was the truth Georgia feared as much as the crimes: proof that Rachel might have survived and proof that Georgia knew where she had gone.

Headlights swept across the shed wall.

Kristin returned the documents to the box but kept one microcassette in her dress. She pushed the box partly beneath the broken board and crawled toward the door.

A man's voice sounded outside.