21. Norah

Jessica had found accommodation at Driftwood Cottages, a series of bluestone houses just outside Port Agatha, which had been converted into fairly ordinary B and Bs. Before leaving town, they'd stopped at the general store for toothbrushes, deodorant, and giant pairs of old-lady underwear (chosen from the limited selection of undergarments displayed next to tampons and toilet paper).

Not even Jessica had argued when Norah suggested they walk the dogs. She was probably too wiped from the day to realize she was almost certainly signing up for shoulder surgery from the constant jerking and tugging. As they walked, they fell into companionable silence, each checking their messages before they went out of range. Among Norah's messages was another text from Kevin.

I've been thinking, I should probably go to the cops about you assaulting me. You know, in case you do it to someone else.

A burst of air expelled from Norah's lungs. She had stopped walking to compose a reply when she saw his next message.

Unless, of course, you wanted to send me a nude?

Wow. Kevin the weasel was wilier than she'd thought.

It wasn't lost on Norah that Kevin was suggesting exactly what Norah herself advocated: a transactional arrangement. If she sent him a nude, he wouldn't go to the cops. Pretty straightforward. But it felt different. Instead of feeling powerful, she felt weak. Instead of feeling like she was in control, she felt trapped. And Norah couldn't think of a worse feeling in the world than that.

As the dogs pulled her forward, an unpleasant sensation built in Norah's chest. She imagined Kevin sitting in his bed with his swollen nose thumbing threats at her. That was the difference, she realized. This wasn't a transaction. This was blackmail.

Motherfucker.

She turned her phone around and opened the camera. She'd send him a photo, if that's what he wanted. A nice close-up. She zoomed in to her hand as she flipped him the bird, making her digit nice and straight. That's what you can do with your threats, Kevin the Weasel. Yes, he might go to the cops, but no one trapped Norah Anderson.

With an angry jab of the thumb, she sent the photo. And just like that, the feeling in her chest subsided.

They'd been walking the dogs along the streets of Port Agatha for nearly an hour when they arrived at the gate of Wild Meadows. It wasn't by chance, nor had they discussed it. It was as if they had made a silent agreement. For some reason or another, they all needed to see it again.

The funny thing was, Norah had been expecting to see the house. But of course it wasn't there. Instead, at the end of the long driveway, was an empty space, a pile of soil and debris, some police tape and what looked to be a large hole.

"I've never been so happy to see something gone," Alicia said quietly.

Norah wasn't sure she agreed. She had never blamed the house for what happened to them. It would be like blaming your bank statement for its shitty balance. But she appeared to be in the minority, because Jessica was nodding.

They started down the driveway. Inside the area surrounded by police tape, men in high-vis vests used an excavator to comb the earth while police stood by, holding red buckets and wheelbarrows. Norah and her sisters weren't the only ones admiring the handiwork. There were several other curious onlookers: a couple in their seventies; a woman with a toddler who was admiring the excavator; and three youngish women, huddled together talking.

As they approached the police tape, the sisters were stopped by a bored-looking policeman.

"This is an active police scene so I'm afraid you can't go any further."

"We grew up here," Jessica said. It was an offhand comment, a statement of fact rather than a request for entry.

At this, the policeman looked less bored. "You lived in the house? You were foster kids?"

They nodded.

He lifted his radio to his mouth. "I've got three more foster kids here," he said.

Norah blinked. Three more?

He lowered the handset to speak to them. "Have you spoken to the detectives? Patel, Tucker, and Hando?"

"Yes," Jessica said. "We've just come from the police station. But did you say—"

"I still can't let you on-site, unfortunately. And we're requesting no photographs. But you can walk around the perimeter of the tape. Some of the others are doing that."

"Who are the others?" Norah wanted to know.

Replacing his radio in his belt, he gestured to the trio of women. Norah, Jessica, and Alicia looked at them, then back at him. Their confusion must have been obvious.

"The other foster kids," he said.

Jessica shook her head. "But there weren't any—"

"The babies," Norah said. "Those women must be the babies."