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she was carrying only a girl. A girl she might be able to save. But a boy would carry Emil’s black heart. She visualized a little Emil growing inside her. She was certain his son would look just like him, with his black eyes and mean, cruel smile. Jessie had even allowed herself to imagine the very scenario that ultimately occurred: that she would miscarry, but only the boy. The girl would remain safe. She had actually lain in bed wishing for such a thing.
    And it had happened.
    Looking down at Abby now, Jessie surprised herself by crying. A tear rolled down her cheek and plopped softly on her daughter’s pink blanket.
    She hadn’t done anything to cause the miscarriage. It was not her fault. You can’t wish something like that into occurring.
    But she had wanted it.
    There was no denying that.
    She felt as if she had willed it to happen, and sometimes the guilt threatened to overwhelm her.
    Jessie stood at the window again watching the sun set over the city. Shadows filled up the alley between the buildings. Lights popped on in windows across the way and the traffic from the street cast a swaying red and yellow glow against the bricks. Abby awoke then, muttering—never crying—and Jessie held her on the couch as she breast-fed her. The baby cooed happily, then went back to sleep.
    Jessie supposed she should eat something herself, so she fixed herself a sandwich from the cold cuts Monica had put in the fridge, washing it down with the last of the Diet Coke. There was an Entenmann’s coconut custard pie in there, too, but she decided she wasn’t hungry enough for dessert. Besides, she needed to watch her weight.
    The one thing the apartment didn’t have was a television set, which Jessie was glad about. It would only distract her from her work. She had no real job, of course. The money Mom and Dad had left her would carry her along for a bit. But she’d always wanted to write. At school her teachers had all encouraged her, telling her that she had “a way with words.” Jessie wasn’t sure about that, but after everything she’d been through, she thought maybe she might have a story to tell.
    Just what that story was, however, wasn’t exactly clear. She flipped open her laptop and sat on the couch staring at the screen, her fingers poised over the keyboard. How did she begin? The night Mom died? The day she learned Monica had stolen Todd? Or Heather had stolen Bryan? Maybe she should start the night she’d met Emil, but Jessie wasn’t ready to remember all that quite yet.
    Finally she sighed and closed her laptop. It was too soon. She couldn’t write about anything that had happened. Not tonight, anyway.
    She realized she was sitting in the dark. The sun had made its last drop behind the buildings of the city while she had been sitting there staring at her computer screen. But rather than turning on a light, Jessie decided to go to bed. Tomorrow would be a new day. She should have a good night’s sleep before making a fresh start.
    In the small bathroom, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. She looked at her eyes. She’d always been told she had pretty eyes. But now the blue seemed duller than it used to be. She’d once been attractive. She wondered if she ever would be again.
    She checked on Abby one more time. Her daughter slept soundly.
    But her son was dead.
    Sleep. She needed sleep.
    Jessie undressed and slipped into a short pink nightgown. As tired as she felt, when she lay down she simply stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The images were there, playing out like a movie. Closing her eyes did no good; they went right on playing.
    She got out of bed.
    Abby was still sleeping peacefully. The city was pulsing below her. All of those people going on with their lives. People were cutting through the alley, bathed in the amber glow of security lamps. Three teenaged boys sauntered through, their pants sagging so far down their legs