You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

28
One day in early January 2008, I had the boys, and at the end of the visit a
security guard who used to work for me and now worked for Kevin came to pick
them up.
First he put Preston in the car. When he came to get Jayden, the thought hit
me: I may never see my boys again. Given how things had been going with my
custody case, I’d become terried that I wouldn’t get the kids again if I gave them
back.
I ran into the bathroom with Jayden and locked the door—I just couldn’t let
him go. I didn’t want anyone taking my baby. A friend was there and came to the
bathroom door and told me the security guard would wait. I held Jayden and
cried so hard. But no one was giving me extra time. Before I knew what was
happening, a SWAT team in black suits burst through the bathroom door as if
I’d hurt someone. The only thing I was guilty of was feeling desperate to keep
my own children for a few more hours and to get some assurance that I wasn’t
going to lose them for good. I looked at my friend and just said, “But you said he
would wait…”
Once they’d taken Jayden from me, they tied me onto a gurney and took me
to the hospital.
The hospital let me go before the end of a seventy-two-hour hold. But the
damage was already done. And it didn’t help that the paparazzi were getting
worse in their hounding of me.
A new custody hearing was held and I was told that now—because I’d been
so scared to lose the kids that I’d panicked—I would be allowed to see them even
less.

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

CHAPTER 28
“Patricia!” Slick cried. “Thank goodness!”
“I’m sorry to drop by without calling—” Patricia began.
“You’re always welcome,” Slick said, pulling her in off the
doorstep. “I’m brainstorming my Halloween party and maybe you
can unstick my logjam. You’re so good at these things!”
“You’re having a Halloween party?” Patricia asked, following Slick
back to her kitchen.
She held her purse close to her body, feeling the folder and
photograph burning through its canvas sides.
“I’m against Halloween in all its forms because of the Satanism,”
Slick said, pulling open her stainless-steel refrigerator and taking out
the half-and-half. “So this year, on All Hallows’ Eve, I will be holding
a Reformation Party. I know it’s last minute, but it’s never too late to
praise the Lord.”
She poured coffee, added her half-and-half, and handed Patricia a
black-and-gold Bob Jones University mug.
“A what party?” Patricia asked.
But Slick had already burst through the swinging door that led to
the back addition. Patricia followed, mug in one hand, purse in the
other. Slick sat on one of the sofas in what she called the
“conversation area,” and Patricia sat across from her and looked for a
place to set her mug. The coffee table between them was covered in
photocopies, clipped-out magazine articles, three-ring binders, and
pencils. The end table next to her was crowded with a collection of
snuffboxes, several marble eggs, and a bowl of potpourri. Along with
the dried flower petals, leaves, and wood shavings, Slick had added a
few golf balls and tees to pay tribute to Leland’s passion for the sport.
Patricia decided to just hold her mug in her lap.
“You catch more flies with sugar than vinegar,” Slick said. “So on
Sunday I’ll throw a party that will make everyone forget about
Halloween: my Reformation Party. I’m going to present the idea to
St. Joseph’s tomorrow. See, we’ll take the children to the Fellowship
Hall—and of course Blue and Korey will be welcome—and we’ll make
sure there are activities for the teenagers. They’re the ones most at
risk, after all, but instead of monster costumes they dress up like
heroes of the Reformation.”
“The who?” Patricia asked.
“You know,” Slick said. “Martin Luther, John Calvin. We’ll have
medieval line dancing and German food, and I thought it would be
fun to have themed snacks. What do you think? It’s a Diet of Worms
cake.”
Slick handed Patricia a picture she’d cut out of a magazine.
“A worm cake?” Patricia asked.
“A Diet of Worms cake,” Slick corrected. “When the Holy Roman
Empire declared Martin Luther a fugitive for nailing his ninety-five
theses to the church door? The Diet of Worms?”
“Oh,” Patricia said.
“You decorate it with gummy worms,” Slick said. “Isn’t that
hilarious? You have to make these things entertaining and
educational.” She plucked the clipping out of Patricia’s hand and
studied it. “I don’t think it’s sacrilegious, do you? Maybe not enough
people know who John Calvin is? We’re also going to try reverse
trick-or-treating.”
“Slick,” Patricia said. “I hate to change the subject, but I need
help.”
“What’s the matter?” Slick asked, putting down the clipping and
scooting to the edge of her seat, eyes fastened on Patricia. “Is it about
Blue?”
“You’re a spiritual person?” Patricia asked.
“I’m a Christian,” Slick said. “There’s a difference.”
“But you believe there’s more to this world than what we can see?”
Patricia asked.
Slick’s smile got a little thin.
“I’m worried about where all this is going,” she said.
“What do you think about James Harris?” Patricia asked.
“Oh,” Slick said, and she sounded genuinely disappointed. “We’ve
been here before, Patricia.”
“Something’s happened,” Patricia said.
“Let’s not go back there again,” Slick said. “All that’s behind us
now.”
“I don’t want to do this again, either,” Patricia said. “But I’ve seen
something, and I need your opinion.”
She reached into her purse.
“No!” Slick said. Patricia froze. “Think about what you’re doing.
You made yourself very sick last time. You gave us all a scare.”
“Help me, Slick,” Patricia said. “I genuinely don’t know what to
think. Tell me I’m crazy and I’ll never mention it again. I promise.”
“Just leave whatever it is in your purse,” Slick said. “Or give it to
me and I’ll put it through Leland’s shredder. You and Carter are
doing so well. Everyone’s so happy. It’s been three years. If anything
bad was going to happen, it would have happened by now.”
A feeling of futility washed over Patricia. Slick was right. The past
three years had been forward progress, not a circle. If she showed
Slick the photo she’d be right back where she started. Three years of
her life reduced to running in place. The thought made her so
exhausted she wanted to lie down and take a nap.
“Don’t do it, Patricia,” Slick said, softly. “Stay here with me in
reality. Things are so much better now than they were. Everyone’s
happy. We’re all okay. The children are safe.”
Inside her purse, Patricia’s fingers brushed the edge of Mrs.
Greene’s folder, worn soft by handling.
“I tried,” Patricia said. “I really did try for three years, Slick. But
the children aren’t safe.”
She pulled her hand out of her purse with the folder.
“Don’t,” Slick moaned.
“It’s too late,” Patricia said. “We’ve run out of time. Just look at
this and tell me if I’m crazy.”
She laid the folder on top of Slick’s papers and placed the
photograph on it. Slick picked up the photo and Patricia saw her
fingers tighten and her face get still. Then she laid it back, facedown.
“It’s a cousin,” she said. “Or his brother.”
“You know it’s him,” Patricia said. “Look at the back. 1928. He still
looks the same.”
Slick drew in one shuddering breath, then blew it out.
“It’s a coincidence,” she said.
“Miss Mary had that photograph,” Patricia said. “That’s her father.
James Harris came through Kershaw when she was a little girl. He
called himself Hoyt Pickens and he got them involved in a financial
scheme that made them a lot of money, and then bankrupted the
whole town. And he stole their children. When people turned on him
he blamed a black man and they killed him, and he disappeared. I
think it was so long ago, and Kershaw’s so far upstate, he didn’t
imagine he’d be recognized if he came back.”
“No, Patricia,” Slick said, pressing her lips together, shaking her
head. “Don’t do this.”
“Mrs. Greene put these together,” Patricia said, opening the green
folder.
“Mrs. Greene is strong in her faith,” Slick said. “But she doesn’t
have the education we have. Her background is different. Her culture
is different.”
Patricia laid out four printed letters from the Town of Mt.
Pleasant.
“They found Francine’s car in the Kmart parking lot back in 1993,”
she said. “Remember Francine? She did for James Harris when he
moved here. I saw her go into his house, and apparently no one ever
saw her again. They found her car abandoned in the Kmart parking
lot a few days later. They sent her letters telling her to come pick it
up from the towing company, but they just sat in her mailbox. That’s
where Mrs. Greene found them.”
“Stealing the mail is a federal crime,” Slick said.
“They had to break into her house to feed her cat,” Patricia said.
“Her sister wound up declaring her dead and selling the house. They
put the money in escrow. They say she has to be gone for five years
before that money gets paid.”
“Maybe she was carjacked,” Slick suggested.
Patricia pulled out the sheaf of newspaper clippings and laid them
out like playing cards, the way Mrs. Greene had done. “These are the
children. You remember Orville Reed? He and his cousin Sean died
right after Francine disappeared. Sean was killed and Orville stepped
in front of a truck and killed himself.”
“We did this before,” Slick said. “There was that other little girl—”
“Destiny Taylor.”
“And Jim’s van, and all the rest,” Slick gave her a sympathetic look.
“Taking care of Miss Mary put you under a terrible strain.”
“It didn’t stop,” Patricia said. “After Destiny Taylor came Chivas
Ford, out in Six Mile. He was nine years old when he died in May
1994.”
“Children die for all kinds of reasons,” Slick said.
“Then came this one,” Patricia said, tapping a police blotter
clipping. “One year after that, in 1995. A little girl named Latasha
Burns in North Charleston cut her own neck with a butcher knife.
How would a nine-year-old do that if there weren’t something
terrible she was trying to get away from?”
“I don’t want to hear this,” Slick said. “Is every child who passes in
some terrible way Jim’s fault? Why stop at North Charleston? Why
not go all the way to Summerville or Columbia?”
“Everyone started leaving Six Mile because of the Gracious Cay
development getting built,” Patricia said. “Maybe it wasn’t easy to
find children who wouldn’t be missed anymore.”
“Leland paid fair prices for those homes,” Slick said.
“Then this year,” Patricia continued, “Carlton Borey up in
Awendaw. Eleven years old. Mrs. Greene knows his aunt. She says
they found him dead in the woods of exposure. Who freezes to death
in the middle of April? She said he’d been sick for months, the same
as the other children.”
“None of this adds up,” Slick said. “You’re being silly.”
“It’s a child a year, for three years,” Patricia said. “I know they’re
not our children, but they’re children. Are we not supposed to care
about them because they’re poor and black? That’s how we acted
before and now he wants Blue. When will he stop? Maybe he’ll want
Tiger next, or Merit, or one of Maryellen’s?”
“This is how witch hunts happen,” Slick said. “People get all
worked up over nothing and before you know it someone gets hurt.”
“Are you a hypocrite?” Patricia asked. “You’re using your
Reformation Party to protect your children from Halloween, but are
you lifting a finger to protect them from this monster? Either you
believe in the Devil or you don’t.”
She hated the bullying tone in her voice, but the more she talked
the more she convinced herself that she needed to ask these
questions. The more Slick denied what was right in front of her eyes,
the more she reminded Patricia of how she’d acted all those years
ago.
“Monster is a very strong word for someone who’s been so good to
our families,” Slick said.
Patricia turned Miss Mary’s photograph over.
“How is he not aging, Slick?” she said. “Explain that to me and I’ll
stop asking questions.”
Slick chewed her lip.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“The men are all out of town this weekend,” Patricia said. “The
cleaning company Mrs. Greene works for cleans his house on
Saturday and Mrs. Greene is going to be there and she’s going to let

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

28
“Are you worried?” I ask as the car winds down the steep hill from the country club. The three
glasses of sauvignon blanc I drank on an empty stomach have loosened my tongue. The purr of the
motor is quiet, and there’s no traffic up here, no sound, really, except for the soft sigh Eddie gives as
he places a hand on my knee.
“About Tripp? I mean, I’m not not worried, that’s for damn sure.”
He reaches up and unbuttons the top button of his shirt, and when I glance over, in the dim light
from the dashboard, I can see the shadows underneath his eyes, the hollow of his cheekbones.
I reach over and place a hand on his leg. “It’s going to be alright,” I assure him. “Now that Tripp
has been arrested—”
Scoffing, Eddie draws his own hand back, placing it on the wheel as he negotiates another turn.
“That’s not exactly an end to it,” he says. “There’s going to be a trial, there will be reporters, there
will be more questions…”
Trailing off, he shakes his head. “It’s a fucking mess.”
I think about what Campbell had started to say the other day at coffee, about Eddie’s temper. The
caterer who screwed up, Bea laughing it off, but Eddie …
No.
No, I told myself I wasn’t going to allow those kinds of thoughts anymore. He asked me to trust
him, and I will.
“We’ve got each other,” I remind him.
Eddie’s expression softens slightly as he looks over at me. “Yeah, there is that, isn’t there?”
He smiles, leaning over to lightly brush his lips over my cheek. He smells good, like he always
does, but underneath the spicy, expensive scent of cologne is the smokier smell of bourbon, and for a
minute, I’m reminded so viscerally of Tripp that I nearly jerk my head back.
But Eddie is nothing like Tripp, and we’ve just been at a party, for fuck’s sake. Of course he
smells a little like nice booze. I probably still smell like those glasses of sauvignon blanc Emily
pushed on me.
The house is lit up as we pull into the driveway, and I wonder if there will ever be a time when I
get used to the idea that I live here. That this gorgeous house is all mine.
Well, mine and Eddie’s.
I have another glass of wine when we get in while Eddie answers some late-night emails, and
then I decide I’m going to take a bath. I can’t get enough of that giant tub, of being able to use it
whenever I want.

In Chapter 28 of “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” by Anne Brontë, the narrator, reflecting on the transformative journey from bride to mother within a single year, delves into the complex tapestry of her emotions surrounding motherhood and marriage. This period has dampened her initial bliss and heightened her fears, yet it has also introduced her to the profound joys and responsibilities of raising a child. She grapples with the dual fears that her child might either be taken from her early or live to regret his existence, each thought leading her to contemplate the harsh possibilities that lie ahead.

As she interacts with her son, Arthur, the narrator reveals a deep maternal bond, marked by hopes and fears for his future. She yearns for her husband to share in this bond, to feel the same joy and hope, and to participate in shaping their son’s future. However, her husband Arthur’s indifference and sometimes derisive attitude toward their child and his parenting duties present a stark contrast to her devoted, nurturing approach. His inability to appreciate their son as she does introduces a strain, highlighting differing attitudes towards family and responsibility.

Arthur’s sporadic attempts to engage with their son are more about seeking her companionship or warding off solitude than genuine interest in the child. A particularly telling interaction occurs when Arthur, after observing his wife’s adoration for their son, expresses jealousy and frustration, revealing a gap in their relationship. The narrator’s attempts to involve Arthur more closely with their son, hoping to cultivate a deeper bond, are met with discomfort and reluctance, though he shows a fleeting willingness to engage.

Through these reflections and interactions, the chapter portrays the narrator’s struggle with her evolving identity as a wife and mother in the face of personal and marital challenges. Her profound attachment to her son and her aspirations for him are juxtaposed against her husband Arthur’s detached, sometimes resentful attitude, underscoring the tensions between their perceptions of family, love, and duty.