My therapist says I'm experiencing postpartum psychosis.

The problem? I'm only six months pregnant.

I don't remember getting pregnant. I don't remember moving into my mother's apartment. I don't remember breaking up with my boyfriend.

Eleanor says I asked for her help. My bank statements say I've been transferring her money for months. The doctors say memory gaps are normal.

But I found the photographs in her closet. Pictures of another baby girl. One who drowned thirty years ago while Eleanor sat nearby, reading.

My grandmother's journal told the truth: "If Eleanor wakes up, run. What happened to Lily wasn't an accident."

My grandmother spent fifteen years keeping Eleanor locked away. I thought she was being cruel.

Now I'm trapped in my mother's apartment, carrying a baby I don't remember conceiving, losing hours I can't account for.

Eleanor has four months until my due date.

I have four months to remember what happened the night I got pregnant.

Because this baby isn't mine.

It's her second chance at my dead sister, Lily.