Epilogue
Daniel was at the police station, waiting in an interview room for the legal aid lawyer to arrive so the cops could interview him.
When they brought him here, he’d demanded to know what they’d done about Susan, since she wasn’t the girl’s rightful mother. It didn’t seem right that he’d be the only one in trouble.
The cop told him he was wrong: a new DNA test had proved she was Maddy’s biological mother after all.
Now he was alone in the room. His head was aching, pounding.
He bent to lay his forehead on his folded arms. His mind blanked, and it seemed like tiny lights flashed behind his closed eyelids. He was swirling, swirling. Was he dreaming or remembering?
He was trudging through the snow in the back field at his farm. He was clearing brush, something he could get done before spring work started. He was carefully not looking at the road that ran past the field—past the spot where Kelly and Jacob had recently died. He didn’t want to be reminded. It was still too fresh.
He was pulling low brush out of a tangled thicket when he came across it. A small bundle. Fabric—a scrap of red, another of pink. Horror gripped him as he took in the ruined face, the tiny bloodied body. It had been ripped apart. Torn at, chewed up. Some animal must have dragged her away from the crash scene that night…
He couldn’t tell Patricia. It would send her over the edge. He could never tell her.
He’d dig a grave, and that would be it. His gift to Patricia, to never remember it. And his gift to himself. It was gone, never happened.
The memory, or the dream, disappeared in the fog. Gone again as if it had never existed.
THE END
A note to my readers…
Thank you for reading Not Your Child—I hope you enjoyed it!
Acknowledgments In the four-plus years it’s taken to bring this novel from conception to birth, I’ve been blessed with a wide range of support as I struggled my way from wannabe novelist to published writer.
First of all, there’s National Novel Writing Month, which grabbed my attention in 2017. I’d always had in mind that someday I’d write a novel. “If not now, when?” I thought, and plunged into the challenge of writing 50,000 words that November.
But I wouldn’t have reached that target without Jess Shulman at my side. She started as my daily writing buddy; then, as my editor, she nursed me through several subsequent drafts and revisions.
Then I had the sense to join Sisters in Crime, in particular its “Guppy” chapter, which exists to support the “Great UnPublished.” Participating in its online writing classes and discussion groups helped me grow as a writer and become part of a writing community.
That community includes several writers who have become valued friends and collaborators. Eona Calli, Michelle Klump, Sharon Michalove, Zell Watson, and Joyce Woollcott all read Not My Child—some more than once—and offered detailed critiques and advice.
Feedback from early readers Amanda Kat Angus, Donna Dortmans, Diane Mossman, and Linda von Tettenborn challenged me to improve my plot and pacing and strengthen my characters.
The North Grenville Writers Circle and the Capital Crime Writers have also been an important part of my writing community.
Jaime Hendricks gave me valuable advice on improving the first chapters of the novel, as well as tightening my query letter.
I’m grateful to the judges at the 2021 Daphne du Maurier contest for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense, who awarded my manuscript second place in the Mainstream Unpublished division.
I owe special thanks to three editors. I’ve already mentioned Jess Shulman, who guided the book through several iterations. Stephen Parolini, in his thorough review of a late draft, suggested a restructuring and some important character tweaks. And Ally Richardson, my editor at The Wild Rose Press, was the one who grabbed my manuscript from the slush pile and championed it, then helped shape its final form.
For some years I’ve been a regular walker. My Ottawalker friends—Joan Craig, Linda Cruz, Judy Field, Barbara Gallagher, Millie Mirsky, Brenda Primmer, and Kate Schissler—along with local walking companions Myrna Milligan, Nancy Muir, and Barb Potter-Angus, provided unflagging encouragement to my writing progress as we walked and talked.
My final, most important thanks go to my husband, Ian, who has been my partner in the many phases of our life together. He not only read and critiqued several versions of my manuscript but brags about me to everyone he knows. Thank you, my love.
A word about the author…
Lis Angus is a Canadian suspense writer. Early in her career, she worked with children and families in crisis; later she worked as a policy advisor, business writer, and editor while raising two daughters. She now lives south of Ottawa with her husband. You can learn more about her at her website, lisangus.com.