“Everybody, let’s raise a glass, or a paper cup, or what have you.” Marcus grabbed a Solo cup of Diet Coke from the counter and hoisted it high. “To all of you, for being such good friends to my wonderful wife. Nutmeg Hill is a great school, and she will miss all of you, I know.”

“Aw,” Christine said, feeling a rush of love for him.

“Hear, hear,” Pam said, nodding.

Marcus turned to Christine, smiled at her with love, and raised his cup to her. “And to my amazing wife, whom I love more than life, and who truly deserves the happiness and joy to come.”

“Thank you, honey.” Christine felt her throat catch at the glistening that came suddenly to his blue eyes, and she put her arms around him while he set the cup down and hugged her back, emitting a tiny groan that only she heard.

“Love you, babe.”

“I love you, too.”

“Get a room!” Lauren called out, and everybody chuckled. The party swung into gear, and Christine circulated with Marcus, introducing him to those who hadn’t met him and saying good-bye to all of her colleagues, whom she would miss. They exchanged teary hugs, and the party wound down until only a handful of people were left: Christine, Marcus, Lauren, Pam, and Trivi-Al, who turned on the TV while they cleaned up.

Suddenly Trivi-Al gestured to the TV screen. “Oh look, they caught that serial killer.”

“What serial killer?” Christine asked idly, gathering her good-bye gifts.

“That serial killer they’ve been looking for, they caught him in Pennsylvania.” Trivi-Al pressed the button on the television to raise the volume, and the voiceover said, “Zachary Jeffcoat, here being transferred, remains in custody outside of Philadelphia for the stabbing murder of nurse Gail Robinbrecht of West Chester, which took place on June 15. The FBI and Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia authorities also link him to the murders of two other nurses…”

“Al, really?” Lauren said, annoyed, as she picked up dirty cake plates. “Don’t be so weird.”

The voiceover continued, “The first alleged murder took place January 12, of Lynn McLeane, a nurse at Newport News Hospital in Virginia, and the second alleged murder was of Susan Allen-Bogen, a nurse at Bethesda General Hospital in Maryland and took place on April 13—”

“Al, please turn it off,” Pam chimed in.

Trivi-Al ignored them, glued to the TV. “Oh this guy’s a freak, let me tell you. They call him the Nurse Murderer. I’ve been following this guy.”

Christine finished her task and glanced at the TV, then did a double-take at the screen. It showed a young blond man in a rumpled jacket, his hands handcuffed behind his back as he was escorted to a police cruiser. A cop put a hand on the man’s head to press him into the backseat, then the man glanced up with round blue eyes.

Christine felt her heart stop.

She recognized those eyes.

She would know that face anywhere.

The serial killer was their donor, Donor 3319.

Chapter Two

“Did you see that?” Christine asked, almost breathless, as soon as they left through the exit doors, alone outside the building. All she had been able to think about during the cleanup was Donor 3319, inwardly freaking out while everybody gathered the presents, and then finally turned out the lights.

“See what?” Marcus asked, squinting to read his smartphone in the bright sun, as they headed down the walkway to the parking lot. He’d slowed his usual lengthy stride to account for her since she had shorter legs.

“On TV, the prisoner, the serial killer?” Christine glanced over her shoulder, to check if anyone was within earshot, but nobody was around. The scene was calm and idyllic, in contrast with the tumult inside her. Nutmeg Hill Elementary was in a rural pocket of Glastonbury, Connecticut, and though it was a Title I school, meaning it had an underprivileged segment, the building was relatively new, two stories of yellow limestone with modern windows, surrounded by acres of open pasture and cornfields.

“No, I didn’t see him.” Marcus pulled his car keys from his pants pocket. “You drove in with Lauren, right? My car is right over here. We can load the presents into my car.”

“Okay, but Marcus, the serial killer—” Christine couldn’t finish her sentence, suddenly feeling that to say it aloud would make it real, and Marcus was barely listening anyway, scrolling through his email. They passed the playground with its new red, yellow, and cobalt plastic chutes and weather-treated timber, set on a square of perfect mulch. In front was an asphalt play area with bright yellow lines for the walking track and foursquare games.

“That was a nice party,” Marcus said idly, still checking his email.

“Right, yes, they really went over the top,” Christine heard herself saying. She couldn’t stop thinking about their donor and the serial killer. She couldn’t believe that something could go so horribly awry. Her heart fluttered like a panicked bird in her chest. She telescoped away from the playground with its newly planted trees, their slender trunks protected by white plastic sleeves. She wished she had a plastic sleeve of her own, one that would encircle her body, protecting her and the baby from harm, from threat, from everything, forever and ever.

“Babe, are you okay?” Marcus asked, pocketing his phone. They crossed to the visitor parking lot and reached his black Audi sedan.

“I’m fine,” Christine forced herself to answer.

“But your face is red.” Marcus opened the car door for her. “Is it the heat? Are you gonna faint?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Get in, and I’ll turn on the air-conditioning.” Marcus gestured at the passenger seat.

“Okay, great.” Christine let him guide her into the seat, then she put her quilted purse on her lap.

“Okay, hold on.” Marcus closed her door, hustled around the front of the car, climbed in the driver’s side, and started the engine, which blasted the air conditioner. He aimed the vents at her, which blew initially hot, but cooled surprisingly fast. “Better?”

“Yes, thanks.” Christine felt the chilly blast as a relief on her cheeks, which were burning. It had to be her blood pressure. She felt as if she were bursting, as if the news had an explosive force of its own.

“What’s up? Is it the heat?”

“No.” Christine had to tell him. She couldn’t keep it to herself. “Marcus, the serial killer on that TV report looked like our donor. He looks like Donor 3319.”