Before There Was a Baby

Chapter 3

The world is white. White sky pressing down like a lid. White snow blanketing the headstones. White breath curling from the mouths of mourners who didn't love him.

I stand at the edge of the grave and feel the cold seeping through my coat, my dress, my skin, all the way down to the marrow.

"We commit William Edward Ellsworth to the earth," the minister continues, "in the sure and certain hope of resurrection."

Resurrection.

What a joke.

Will isn't coming back. Will is in that polished mahogany box with its obscene brass handles.

He would have hated this casket.

"Such a beautiful service," someone whispers behind me. "Helen arranged everything perfectly."

"The flowers are exquisite. Did you see the roses?"

No, I want to scream. He hated roses. He was allergic to them. He would have wanted wildflowers and bad jokes and someone to play his favorite song.

But I don't scream. Ellsworths don't scream at funerals.

My mother stands on my left, rigid and immaculate in black Chanel.

Behind us, people are crying. Real tears or theatrical ones—I can't tell anymore. The business partners, the society friends, the distant relatives who only appeared when there was something to gain.

I am dry-eyed. I cried myself empty three days ago on my flight home, sobbing into an airline pillow while strangers pretended not to notice.

My cousin Margaret materializes at my elbow, sleek and satisfied in her designer black. Her surgeon husband hovers a respectful distance behind, his face arranged in practiced solemnity.

"Caroline." Her voice drips with rehearsed sympathy. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm standing upright. That counts for something."

"I can only imagine what you're going through. You and William were so close…" She adjusts her black gloves, examining them like they might disappoint her. "I suppose you'll be staying in New York now. My mother mentioned Helen needs you."

Your little escape is over.

"I have business to attend to in Vienna."

"Of course you do, honey. But circumstances change, don't they?" She glances toward the grave, then back to me. "With William gone, I suppose now you'll have to carry your own weight."

The rage flares hot and sudden in my chest.

I want to slap her. I want to scream that I would trade every moment of relevance to have Will back, that I never wanted to be seen by these people. That their attention feels like standing under a microscope held by vultures.

The minister closes his Bible. "Would anyone like to say a few words?"

Silence stretches across the cemetery.

I should speak. I should step forward and tell them about Will—the real Will, not the golden heir they're burying.

The brother who snuck me chocolate when Mother put me on diets at twelve. The twin who held me through panic attacks and taught me to breathe in fours. The only person who knew me from before memory.

But the words won't come. They're trapped somewhere beneath my sternum, frozen solid.

"Caroline." My mother's voice, low and sharp. "Stand up straight."

I hadn't realized I was swaying when the casket began to lower. The mechanical whir of the mechanism cuts through the minister's final prayer.

Will. Will. Will.

My knees buckle but someone catches my arm—I don't see who, but something similar and woodsy invades my senses. Like cedar and…

The world grays at the edges, and for one crystalline moment, I think: Yes. Let me fall. Let me follow him down into that cold ground. I don't want to be here without him.

But I lock my knees and force the darkness back.

"Thank you," I manage to whoever is holding me. "I'm fine now."

The hand releases and I don't turn to see its owner.

The service ends. The crowd thins. People drift toward the cars, toward the reception, toward the performance of grief that will continue for hours.

I stay and the grave gapes open before me, waiting to be filled. The casket sits at the bottom, already touched with the first shovelfuls of frozen earth.

This is the last moment.

After this, they cover him up, and I'll never see even the box that holds him again.

"Caroline."

My mother's voice cuts through the fog.

Helen materializes beside me, her black-gloved hand closing around my elbow. Even her grip is controlling.

"The cars are waiting," she says. "We have guests arriving at the house."

"Give me a minute."

"You've had your minute. Several of them, in fact." Her fingers tighten. "There are appearances to maintain."

"He's my brother." The words scrape out of my throat. "My twin. Can I not have five minutes to say goodbye?"

"You can say goodbye at the reception. There will be plenty of time for sentiment later." She pauses, her gray eyes sliding toward the grave. "Lucy is being buried tomorrow."

Lucy.

The name strikes like a match.

Lucy Calloway. The one who was driving.

The thought is gasoline on the fire in my chest.

Will's fiancée. Will's precious, perfect fiancée who was supposed to take care of him.

She was behind the wheel. She was responsible.

And now Lucy is dead too, which means I can't even hate her properly. I can't scream at her, can't demand to know why she didn't drive slower, check the roads, save him.

"I've canceled your flight," my mother continues.

The ground shifts beneath my feet. "What?"

"Thursday. Vienna. I've canceled it. You won't be needing it."

"You had no right."

"I have every right. You're my daughter. And you will remain in New York for as long as I require."

"Mother, I have a job. I have responsibilities. I have a life in Vienna."

"You have what I allowed you to have." Her grip shifts, pulling me closer, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my elbow. I catch the faint scent of vodka beneath her perfume. "William is dead. And so your little European adventure is over."

"It wasn't an adventure. It was my home. Everything I built—"

"Was built on my money." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I let you play at independence, Caroline. The game is over now. If you attempt to leave—if you so much as book a flight without my knowledge—I will drag you back."

Her grip tightens until I feel the bones in my arm grinding together.

"I will freeze every account with your name on it. I will have you declared mentally unfit if I must. And when I'm finished, you won't have the resources to buy a cup of coffee, let alone run."

I can't breathe.

"Do you understand me, Caroline?"

I stare at her. At the granite composure that has never once cracked in my presence.

"You can't do this…"

"I can do whatever I wish. I always have."

Mother releases my arm, and I stumble slightly, catching myself before I fall. Then she straightens her gloves with precision, and turns to walk away.

The cemetery sounds fade—the distant murmur of departing mourners, the crunch of footsteps on snow—until all I can hear is my own pulse hammering against my eardrums.

My vision darkens at the edges, and suddenly I can't feel my hands, can't feel my feet, can't feel anything except the crushing pressure in my chest and the terrible certainty that I am trapped. Buried alive in this family, in this city, in this life I never chose.

No.

I force my breathing steady.

I can't afford to fall apart. Not here. Not now. Not ever again.

Instead, I redirect the terror, channel it into something I can survive.

Lucy Calloway is the reason Will is dead.

The panic recedes, shoved down by hatred.

I will never forgive. I will never forget who was driving.