Chapter 6

　　The baby is starting to show, a subtle curve beneath my clothes. I lie in bed and let my fingers trace the swell. I think about the way Nathaniel used to touch me there, before we were married, when he would press his palm flat against my belly and tell me he wanted to fill me with his children. His voice was rough, possessive. It made me ache.

　　I slide my hand lower and let the memory carry me. The pressure builds. I bite my lip to keep silent. When I come, it is with his name on my lips, a whisper I cannot stop.

　　I roll onto my side and squeeze my eyes shut. Those days are gone.

　　The night before the surgery, I dream of the mansion. I am standing in the bedroom, wearing the emerald dress, staring at the empty closet. Nathaniel is behind me. I feel his presence before I see him, the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of his cologne. He presses against me, his chest to my back, his hands sliding around my waist. He asks why I left. His lips brush my ear. I try to speak, but no sound comes. His hands move lower, spreading across my stomach. His touch is gentle, reverent. I lean into him.

　　He turns me. His mouth finds mine. His tongue parts my lips. I taste him, whiskey and something else, something that is just him. His hands slide down my back, grip my thighs, lift me. I wrap my legs around his waist. I feel him hard against me. He carries me to the bed and lays me down.

　　His face changes. Becomes Celeste's face. She smiles and reaches for my stomach.

　　I wake up sweating, my hand pressed between my thighs. The baby is moving now. Small flutters, like wings beating against my skin.

　　I lie in the dark and breathe until the dream fades.

　　The surgery goes well. Six hours of precise incisions, steady hands, a heart that needed mending. When I close the final stitch, the child's heartbeat is strong. Her mother is crying in the waiting room when I find her. She grabs my hands and asks if her daughter will be okay.

　　I tell her she will live. She will run and play and grow up.

　　The mother thanks me. She calls me a miracle worker.

　　That night, I sit in my apartment and hold the new ultrasound photograph Marcus gave me. The baby is bigger now, a recognizable shape, a profile that looks like something. Like someone.

　　I trace the outline with my finger. Nathaniel's profile, I realize. The same strong nose, the same defined chin. My chest tightens. My hand moves to my belly, feeling the life inside me. I imagine Nathaniel's hand there instead. I squeeze my eyes shut and let the fantasy take me. His hands on my hips. His mouth on my throat. The weight of him pressing me into the mattress. I slide my hand down and touch myself to the thought of him. When I come, it is with a sob I cannot contain.

　　The next package arrives on a Tuesday. I am leaving for the hospital when I find it on my doorstep. Brown paper, no return address. My name in the same handwriting as before.

　　Inside, a photograph. Not of me. Not of Nathaniel.

　　A sonogram. My sonogram. The one I left in the bathroom of the mansion the night I walked out.

　　Beneath it, a note.

　　I know.

　　I stare at the words. My hand goes to my stomach. The baby kicks.

　　I call Marcus. He is there in fifteen minutes. He looks at the photograph. He looks at the note. His face goes dark.

　　He tells me to pack a bag. I am not staying here tonight.

　　I ask who sent it.

　　He says he does not know yet. But he will find out.

　　I look at the sonogram. The date is printed in the corner. The week I left. The week I disappeared.

　　Someone found it. Someone kept it. Someone knows.

　　Marcus drives me to a hotel outside the city. He books a room under a false name. He promises to find out who sent the package.

　　I sit on the edge of the bed and hold my stomach. The baby is moving, restless, as if she feels my fear.

　　I think about running again. I think about disappearing, changing my name, leaving everything I built.

　　But I am tired of running.

　　I take out my phone. I scroll through my contacts until I find a name I have not called in months.

　　Nathaniel.

　　I remember the way he felt inside me. The way he held me after. The way he whispered my name.

　　I press the call button.

　　He answers on the second ring. His voice is rough, uncertain.

　　Victoria?

　　I close my eyes. I steady my breathing.

　　We need to talk. Tomorrow. In person.

　　He is silent for a moment. Then he asks where.

　　I tell him a café, neutral ground. I tell him to come alone.

　　I hang up before he can say more. My heart is pounding.

　　The baby kicks again, harder this time. I press my palm flat against her.

　　Tomorrow, I will see Nathaniel. Tomorrow, I will find out if he sent the sonogram.

　　But tonight, alone in this hotel room with my daughter moving inside me, I let myself admit what I have been avoiding.

　　I still want him.

　　I roll onto my side and curl around my belly. The baby settles.

　　Tomorrow, I will be strong. I will not let him see how much I still want him.

　　But in the dark, I let the memory wash over me. His hands on my hips. His mouth on my breast. The sound he made when he came undone inside me.

　　I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for sleep to take me.