Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Is that why you moved?”
He glances again at where his mom disappeared to and nods. “Mom and Dad got divorced so I moved here with my mom. They sold the house. Dad’s in Utah.”
“And you changed your name to your mother’s maiden name?”
He nods. “I thought maybe… if those guys tried to find me it wouldn’t be as easy.”
“Would you recognize any of those men who came by? Or who pushed Hayes? Can you describe any of them?”
He shakes his head. “All I know is if I came across them on a dark street I’d cross to the other side. That’s the kind of people they were.”
“All right. Here.” I hand him a card with my number on it, just that, no name. “If anyone else comes by to see you, you call me.”
“You think they’ll come back?”
“I don’t think so. I was just curious.” I look around, take my wallet out and leave several hundred-dollar bills on the coffee table. “Thanks, Mitch. I’ll see myself out.”
“They murdered him,” he says when I reach the door. “I was too scared to go back to the cops, but they killed that man. And they laughed afterwards like it was funny, one of them whistling and then going splat like it was a fucking cartoon.”
I look back at the kid, see how haunted his eyes look, and I see the countless kids who witnessed similar things over the five years I was the Commander’s enforcer.
“Call me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all.”
He nods.
I walk out.
30
MADELENA
Santos and I have an appointment in the morning with a gynecologist out of town. After what happened with Fairweather, he’s not taking any chances. We drive together along with two soldiers and Val to the office of Dr. Amelia Moore.
I like Dr. Moore right away. She seems warm and is younger than both Fairweather and Cummings. The fact that she’s a woman helps too.
Santos does most of the talking. I’m still processing everything to be honest. He wants to find out how far along I am and how much time I have to decide on what path we’re taking. He means termination, although neither of us are saying the word.
After getting those details out of the way, Dr. Moore examines me, explains she’ll be doing a transvaginal ultrasound because the baby is likely too small to see otherwise.
Santos sits on a chair as I lay on the table and stare up at the ceiling, my mind not quite processing that this is happening. That I’m here in this office, on this table. That I’m pregnant.
The probe is uncomfortable and Dr. Moore senses it.
“It’s cold, I know, honey,” she says lightly. “There we go.” She turns the monitor toward us. I don’t look at it yet, but Santos watches intently. I just listen to the strange echo-like sound. She describes things to Santos, who asks questions while I keep staring up at the ceiling.
Then something happens that has me bite the inside of my cheek as I listen.
The echoing sound changes. Dr. Moore says something, but I don’t hear what it is. I’m hearing something else.
A heartbeat.
I feel a tear slide down my temple, and Santos takes my hand, squeezes it.
“Their hearts beat fast, like they’re running a race,” Dr. Moore is saying. “Everything looks good with your baby.”
Our baby.
“It’s too early to tell the sex just yet, if you wanted to know that, but I’d say you’re almost seven weeks along. I’ll print a few pictures for you,” she says, removing the probe. “Come on into my office once you’re dressed, Madelena.”
“Thanks,” I say, and wait until they both leave to sit up and look at the screen. At the little blob frozen there that definitely doesn’t look human just yet. I touch my stomach. It’s a little rounder than usual but probably more bloating than anything else. It’s too early for me to be showing.
I am certain of one thing as I get up and get dressed again. I know I won’t terminate this pregnancy. I can’t do that. I don’t know why, and I have no judgment for any woman who chooses that path, but I know I can’t.
Before leaving that room, I splash a little water onto my face then straighten and steel my spine. I look the same, although I’m wearing less makeup. I haven’t had the energy. And maybe I’m a little paler. But the same mostly. I close my hand over my stomach and look down.
“Poor you,” I tell her. She’s a her for some reason. Then I walk out of the examination room and into Dr. Moore’s office, where Santos is looking at each of the pictures the doctor has printed. He is in awe. I watch him for a minute, see how lines appear around his eyes as he smiles and asks questions, pointing at things on the small speck that is our baby. He’ll make a good dad, I think. Good enough to make up for me as a mom.