The white noise hadn't gone away, and Ben was struggling to hear and understand her words over the constant roar in his ears. Mrs. Finch didn't know what she was talking about. Melody was anything but an innocent young girl, sitting at home fretting over him.

"That's impossible," he said, shakily. "She can't be." They'd been using protection. After the terrible experience of Paris, neither of them had been ready to face the possibility of children again. They'd been diligent about using it ever since, even though Ben hated having to deal with the mess of it. There had only been one time when they hadn't. The beginning of the year, when they'd tentatively made amends after the stress of the holiday and the divorce conversation and everything else. His last real attempt to mend things.

So he supposed it was possible.

Fuck.

"Where is she?" he demanded, rising from his chair. He didn't have time for this pandering conversation about fucking Maisie, not if what she'd said was true.