When I was six months pregnant, my husband took the only car out of a wildfire with his mother and his mistress inside. I stood in the smoke,
Brett stared at me, the blood draining from his face until he looked like a wax figure. The microphone slipped from his trembling fingers, hitting the stage with an agonizing squeal of feedback. In the front row, Eleanor gasped, while Tessa instinctively took a terrified step backward into the shadows. “Natalie?” Brett stammered. I watched…