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been a Kennedy. Though he had fathered Mikaela, he had never been a father to her. He had another family, a lily-white one. He had spent fifteen years in Rosa’s bed, but every moment had been stolen from his wife and legitimate children.
    He would not come to the rescue of his bastard daughter.
    Rosa stood in the darkened living room. Here and there, watery moonlight peeked through the worn, tattered curtains, illuminating the garage-sale sofa, the wood-grained plastic end tables, the religious paintings on the walls. Mikaela and Liam had often tried to get Rosa to move from this house, or to accept money to repair it, but she always refused them. She was afraid that if she left, she would forget the mistakes God wanted her to remember.
    It had all started here, in this house she never should have accepted. It had seemed safe enough at the time, a present from a man who loved her. In those days, she had still believed he would leave his wife.
    Candlelight illuminated the streaks of condensation that slid down the too-thin glass windows.
    When Mikaela was young, she used to love that condensation. She would shout to Rosa,
Look, Mama, it’s raining inside the house
.
    Rosa wondered now if Mikaela had ever understood why her mother never came to stand beside her at the window. Rosa had seen tears instead of raindrops, had always known that this old house wept at the sadness it had seen.
    Bad love.
    It was the heart of this house; it had purchased every nail and paid most of the bills. It was mixed into the paint. Bad love had planted the hedge and made it grow tall; it had crafted the gravel walkway that led to a front door designed to conceal that love from all who would recognize it; it was woven into the fabric of the curtains that hid the windowpanes.
    She had always known that she would pay for these sins. No amount of confession could cleanse her soul, but this … she’d never imagined this.
    “Please God,” she said, “save
mi hija …
”
    Again, silence. She knew that if she stepped outside, she would hear the rustling of the bare willow tree, and that it would sound like an old woman weeping.
    With a tired sigh, she walked into her small bedroom, pulled her only suitcase out of the closet, and began to pack.

Chapter Four

    The bedside phone rang at six o’clock the next morning. Liam had been dreaming—a good dream in which he and Mikaela were sitting on the porch swing, listening to the children’s distant laughter. For a second, he could feel the warmth of her hand in his … then he noticed the boy sleeping quietly beside him and it all came rushing back.
    His heart was clattering like a secondhand lawn mower as he reached for the phone.
    It was Sarah, a nurse from the hospital. Mikaela had made it through the night.
    Liam leaned carefully over Bret and hung up the phone. He crawled out of bed, showered—not realizing until he’d gotten out that he forgot to use soap or shampoo—then went to wake his children.
    Within an hour, the three of them drove to the hospital. Liam settled the kids in the waiting room, then went to the ICU.
    He went to Mikaela’s bedside, hoping—absurdly—to find her sitting up, smiling …
    But the room was deathly still; she hadn’t moved.
    She looked worse. The right side of her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. Both eyes were hidden beneath puffy discolored flesh.
    Clear plastic tubing invaded her left nostril, and her mouth was completely slack. A tiny silver trail of spittle snaked down her discolored cheek, collected in a moist gray blotch on the pillow. The flimsy blanket was drawn up high on her chest; it had been folded with methodical precision and tucked in tight to her body in a way that made Liam think of death.
    The team of specialists arrived. They examined her, tested her, and talked among themselves. Liam waited silently beside them, watching as his beloved wife failed one test after another.
    Truth is, Liam, we don’t know why she’s not