Girl One(38)

I stepped back, startled and then annoyed. The fact that Ricky Peters had murdered Bellanger—and in so doing had robbed me of my chance to know my sort-of father, had cut off the bright future I’d meant to herald into existence—that was a given. In every account about the final days of the Homestead, historians and journalists and fans and critics largely agreed that Ricky Peters murdered Dr. Joseph Bellanger. “Be serious,” I snapped.

“I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Peters killed Bellanger. He was convicted, he pled guilty, for fuck’s sake—”

“The evidence was circumstantial.” Tom looked at me, impatience starting to edge into his voice too. “Peters still claims that he was set up, forced into a plea deal. You’ve never had doubts?”

“Ricky himself said that Bellanger would burn in hell, the week of the fire. It was caught on camera.” I clenched and unclenched my fists. “Even in prison, he’s been convincing half the country to hate us for the past two decades.”

Tom rubbed his neck, looking unconvinced. “Look, what I think is that … uh … Bellanger was a complicated man. A man who challenged everything we know about reproduction. But Ricky Peters as a villain is simple. Too simple. He’s a stock character from a morality play. Science versus religion. What if we convicted him because it was the simplest answer?”

“Yeah, well. From where I stand, a lot of good things in this world are destroyed by simple men.”

Tom gazed at me for a second, then took a deep breath. “I don’t want to fight about it right now,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. Forget it. I’m going to get my bags—”

Cate passed him as he walked back to the house, did a little double-take at his expression. “Lovers’ quarrel?” she asked me, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s nothing. I’m just on edge. We’re all on edge.”

She gave me a searching look.

“What if I’m just making things worse for everyone?” I asked impulsively. “If we hadn’t come to see you, you’d be fine now. We brought that man here. He’s been following us all this time.” If I’d confronted the driver way back, the first night I arrived in Coeur du Lac—if I’d trusted my instincts instead of reaching for fear and caution, I could’ve pulled what I needed from him instead of turning myself into a target, oblivious, not sure who was chasing me or why.

Cate shoved a box aside to make room for her things. The box was filled with books about the Homestead. Experimental Embryology: A Manual and History. The Virgin Farce: The True Story of Joseph Bellanger. Deb’s memoir, her face gleaming a Crest-ad grin up at me.

“Hey, don’t let that weigh on you,” Cate said. “You know what I think? With everything going on? That man wasn’t here just because of you. He would’ve been here anyway. That’s why we need to find the others.” She slammed the trunk shut. “To warn them.”





17

“So, Tom. Thomas Abbott.” Cate ate a fry, neatly, in three deliberate bites. “What’s your story, young man?” She hung over the edge of my seat as we drove, breath warm on my neck.

The Volvo smelled like the fire, a constant reminder of last night. I checked the rearview mirror compulsively, scanning for a car following us. Nothing so far.

“Kind of a waste to talk about my story when I’m with the two of you.” After our argument, Tom was a little stiff around the edges, but I saw him soften under her attention.

“Start with that, then.” The bag rustled as Cate fished for another fry, though the food had gone cold an hour ago. “What’s so interesting about the Homestead? Are you a weirdo? One of those guys who say our mothers wouldn’t be virgins anymore if you could just get your hands on them?” She waggled her eyebrows.

Virgin birth had always been a colloquialism, fitting our mothers uncomfortably. It was the births that were virginal, not necessarily the mothers. Late-night hosts, politicians, medical researchers: they loved to speculate about our mothers’ sexual histories, with Bellanger himself being the most obvious Lothario. Of all the mothers, mine had been paired with Bellanger the most often. I’d assumed it was because she came first in line. Now, knowing what I did about my mother’s earnest letter, I wondered if it was something deeper. A compellingly odd couple: Bellanger’s easy confidence, my mother’s tentative smile. I’d seen the editorial cartoon of my mother crowned with a Virgin Mary halo as a leering Bellanger threw her on a bed and undid his belt.

“Nah, it’s not like that at all.” A blush reddened the back of Tom’s neck. “There hasn’t been a book published about the Homestead for nearly ten years now. The eight of you have grown up and the world is moving on, people care more about—I don’t know, IVF and sperm banks than what Bellanger did. I just wanted to revisit Bellanger’s legacy and shed some more light on what he actually accomplished. I know it’s a long shot. I’d almost given up on it when Margaret called me out of the blue.”

Cate leaned back. “Hmm. You know what I’d like to see? A book that discusses the way the Homestead affected women’s lives. You writer types love to obsess over the lost science, or Bellanger’s grandstanding, or the dead bodies. But what about the way it impacted women? Like, maybe it wasn’t strange for a single woman to raise a baby alone. Maybe it was a miracle instead.” In the rearview mirror, I caught the intensity of her gaze. “I hope whoever follows in Bellanger’s footsteps pays more attention to that.”