Joseph told me about hell. The place that sinners go. A place of never-ending punishment and torture, with demons and dragons and the devil himself. Eternal punishment. Lakes of fire. Fiery furnace. Unquenchable fire. Fire, fire, fire. I lived in fear of fire.

I tried to be a good girl. I did. I cleaned up the house when Joseph was teaching and Isaac and Matthew were at school; I made dinner for Joseph and the boys, carried Miriam a tray, though it was rare that she would eat on her own, without some arm-twisting from Joseph.

Miriam spent most of her days in either one of two ways, in a sleep-like daze, wide-awake but totally still, like a statue, or she’d be up and in a panic, throwing herself at Joseph’s feet and begging for his forgiveness. There were days when she was agitated, snapping at Joseph and the boys about reading her mind. She’d tell them to stop it, stop reading my mind. And then get out, get out, get out, and she’d smack at her head with the palm of her hand as if she was pushing them, pushing Joseph, Isaac and Matthew right on out of her brain. On those days Joseph would lock her in her room with a lock and key. He kept that key with him at all times, even when he wasn’t home, so that when it was just Miriam and me, I could hear her screaming from her bedroom all day long about how Joseph was reading her mind, how he was putting thoughts inside her head.

I thought that Miriam was crazy. She scared me. Not like Joseph did, but in her own way.

I did my chores, the laundry and cleaning and such, made dinner for when Joseph and the boys came home. And I hummed loud enough to drown out the sound of Miriam’s screams. But I only hummed when Joseph wasn’t around, because Joseph would swear that whatever I was humming, usually Patsy Cline like the records Momma used to play, wasn’t right by God. Blasphemy, he’d say. Sacrilege.

But Joseph never did lock me in my room. Not back then, at least. Joseph knew I wouldn’t run away ’cause over and over again he told me about Lily. How he’d do things to her if ever I misbehaved. So I didn’t ever misbehave.

But when Miriam was being statue-like, I’d go into her room, and it was as if she didn’t know I was there. Her eyes, they wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t follow me as I helped her move from the bed. They wouldn’t blink. From time to time, I pulled the dirty sheets from that bed and washed them. And then I’d go back inside to help Miriam into the tub, to scrub her body with my bare hands because Joseph told me that it was mine to do.

I did what Joseph asked of me, nearly all the time.

Once and only once did I say no to Joseph as he climbed into bed beside me. Only once did I admit that it hurt, what he did to me. I pulled my legs up as high as I could and wrapped my arms around them so that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t find a way in, and he stood before me, before the bed, and said, “‘An eye that mocks a father and scorns to obey a mother will be picked out by the ravens of the valley and eaten by the vultures.’ Proverbs 30:17.”

And I imagined that. Being picked apart by ravens and vultures. My carcass being torn apart by their beaks and talons because God was angry with me. Because I was refusing my father what was his duty and obligation.

And then I parted my legs and let him climb up on me and I held real still, like Momma used to say when we’d go to the doctor for a shot. “Hold still and it won’t hurt so much.” And I did, I held real still. But still, it hurt.

It hurt there, in the moment. Hurt long after he’d gone, after he’d told me what a good girl I’d been, how he was pleased with me.

I thought long and hard about that, about me being a good girl. I wondered what it would take, how many times Joseph would have to let himself into my room, before this good girl turned bad.

CHRIS

I finish my breakfast and head in for a shower, making sure to scour the tile first to remove any trace of the vile sores on that girl’s feet. Thirty minutes later, Heidi stands before me, hands on hips, and asks, “Really?” when I appear before her with briefcase in hand and I reply, “Yes, really,” as I say goodbye to Zoe and head for the door.

I drag Heidi by the hand and into the hallway before I go. The scent of Heidi’s breakfast fills the space. A neighbor passes by, presumably headed for the newsstand on the corner.

“I want you to call me,” I say as the elevator chimes in the distance and our neighbor friend descends to the first floor. “Every hour on the hour. If you’re so much as a minute late, I’m calling the police.”

“You’re being unreasonable, Chris,” she says to me.

“Every hour, Heidi,” I repeat. “It’s that simple,” I say, asking rhetorically, “How much can you really know about another person?”

And then I kiss her cheek and leave.

On the train, I eavesdrop on twentysomethings’ conversations about the previous night’s drunken adventures, their lingering headaches, whether or not they puked when they got home.

Later, relishing the quiet solitude of my office, I slide the receipt from my wallet and peer at the name on the back: Willow Greer. I stretch in a leather executive chair on the forty-third floor of a skyscraper in the North Loop, and realize then and there that my offering memorandum—the one hanging over my head, the reason for the commute to work this sunny Sunday morning—is the furthest thing from my mind. I consider that booklet I’m to put together, the one that details the inner workings of some company we’re to sell—financial statements, business description, the works—and then push it from my mind.

I fire up the computer and type in the words Willow Greer.

Enter.

While the computer does its thing, I find myself staring at a blank spot on the wall, thinking that I should’ve stopped on the way in and picked up some coffee. My office is windowless, though I’m supposed to be grateful I have an office at all, and not a ceilingless gray cubical as many of our analysts do. I forage through the desk drawers for two shiny quarters, planning a trip to the vending machine as soon as I solve the mystery of Willow Greer. The phone rings and I snap it up. Heidi’s sarcastic voice is on the other end, announcing, “Eleven o’clock check-in call.” I peer at the numbers in the corner of my computer screen: 10:59. In the background, the baby wails.

“Why’s she crying?” I ask.

“Fever’s back,” says Heidi.

“Did you give her medicine?”

“Just waiting for it to kick in.”

“Try a cool washcloth,” I offer, “or a lukewarm bath,” remembering how sometimes, with Zoe, that worked. But what I really want to say is Serves you right, or Told you so.

“Will do,” says Heidi, and we hang up the phone, but not before I remind her, “One hour. I’ll talk to you in one hour.”

And then I go back to the computer.

The first thing I do is look through the images, expecting to see Willow’s face staring right back at me. But instead I find some redheaded celeb of the same name. A brunette blotting various social media pages, appearing far too immodest—boobs spilling out of a scoop-neck shirt, a paunch overhanging a pair of cutoff jeans—to be our Willow. A town called Willow in Greer County, Oklahoma. Various homes for sale in Greer, South Carolina. According to the virtual phone book, there are six people living in the United States with the name Willow Greer. Not to be confused with Stephen Greer who lives on Willow Ridge Drive in Cincinnati. Only four of six Willow Greers are listed. I yank a sheet of scratch paper from the printer and begin jotting the information down. Willow Greer of Old Saybrook, Connecticut, is in the forty-to forty-four-year-old age range. Too old. Willow Greer of Billingsley, Alabama, is even older at 65+. She could be ninety. I write it down anyway; maybe Ms. Greer of Billingsley, Alabama, is our Willow’s grandma. Or great-grandma. The others don’t list an age range.