Ida's shadow rose erect, and her black-eyed gaze, calm as the eye of the hurricane, rested on Geneva's face. 'Who's the father?"
Geneva gripped the sheets more tightly, her eyes blurring, her mind struggling to imagine the consequences of answering her question. Victor was in the war. The children were in Massachusetts. Her mind could focus no better than her eyes. Her whole body seized up as another wave of pain engulfed her.
'He can be made to take responsibility, you know. Tell me," said Ida.
No. Geneva turned her face aside. She would write a letter to Massachusetts. Please forward. Victor would come home. Then they would face Ida and John Scarborough and the rest of the world, together.
'Well, are you going to tell me?"
'N-no. I-I can take care of it." Victor could be here before John Scarborough could make her do anything. Please God!
'Um-hum. Was it, by chance, my brother?"
Dear God.
'Tell me girl, or I give you my word, I won't help you."
Geneva felt Victor had delivered her into the hands of a monster.
'Suzanne Morris excels in providing new dimensions to conventional narrative."
-Dallas Morning News
'Suzanne Morris writes with all the bark off. She has a capacious imagination for characterization and psychological dilemmas. She lets the presence of the past lean upon her unsuspecting characters."
-Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch
