Chapter 7

　　I stare at Nathaniel's name on my phone screen until the light fades and the device goes dark.

　　I do not call him. Not tonight.

　　Instead, I lie on the hotel bed with my hand pressed against my stomach, counting the minutes until Marcus returns. The baby moves in slow rolls, as if she knows something is wrong. I talk to her in the darkness, a whisper. I tell her she is safe. I tell her I will never let anyone hurt her.

　　I do not know if I believe the words.

　　Marcus arrives at midnight. He carries a laptop and a folder thick with printouts. He sets them on the small desk and tells me he traced the package.

　　The handwriting belongs to a courier service that asks no questions. The payment was cash, dropped at a drop location downtown. No cameras. No names.

　　I ask if there is any way to find out.

　　Marcus says he has people working on it. He pulls up a map, pointing to a mailbox rental store on the edge of the city. The courier picked it up there.

　　I ask if the store has cameras.

　　Marcus says he is checking.

　　I do not sleep. I sit by the window, watching city lights blur against the glass. My phone sits on the nightstand, silent. I think about the sonogram I left behind in the mansion bathroom. I thought it was lost. I thought no one would find it.

　　Someone found it. Someone kept it for months. Someone waited until now to use it.

　　I think about Nathaniel. The last time I saw him, in the café. The way his voice cracked when he said he would find a way to fix everything. The way he reached for me, his hand hovering inches from my arm, not quite touching.

　　I close my eyes and remember his touch. The first time he laid me down on his bed, in the early days when he still looked at me like I was something precious. His hands were everywhere, learning me. He whispered my name against my skin. When he finally entered me, it was slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. I came apart with my fingers digging into his shoulders.

　　After we married, those moments became rarer. But sometimes, when he came home late and found me still awake, he would pull me against him in the dark. His hands would find my waist, my hips, the hollow of my throat. He would kiss me like he was starving. I would let him push my nightgown up, let him take me quickly, desperately. Those were the only times he made me feel like I existed.

　　I shake my head. I cannot want a man who let his mother destroy me.

　　But the wanting is there, coiled low in my belly. I press my thighs together and it only intensifies.

　　Marcus leaves at dawn to follow the trail. I stay in the hotel room. I call the hospital and tell Dr. Vance I need a personal day. She does not ask questions.

　　I spend the morning pacing. I try to read. I try to meditate. I try to plan.

　　Nothing works.

　　By noon, I know what I have to do.

　　I take out my phone. I scroll to Nathaniel's name. I remember his voice on the phone last night, rough with sleep, saying my name like a question.

　　I press the button before I can change my mind.

　　He answers on the second ring. His voice is low, rough, as if he has not slept.

　　He says my name. Not Victoria. The name he used when we were married, when he still remembered I existed.

　　I tell him we need to talk.

　　There is a long silence. Then he asks where I am.

　　I do not answer. I tell him I will meet him in a public place. Neutral ground. He can bring whoever he wants. I will bring Marcus.

　　He asks if I am okay.

　　I hang up.

　　Marcus is not happy. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. He says meeting Nathaniel is a mistake. He will use this to find me, to track me, to drag me back.

　　I tell him I have no choice. Someone knows about the baby. If it is Celeste, she will come for me whether I hide or not. If it is Nathaniel, I need to know now.

　　Marcus stares at me for a long moment. Then he nods. He says he will arrange it. He will be there the entire time.

　　The meeting is set for the following afternoon. A café on the outskirts, neutral ground. Marcus arrives early to check the exits, the cameras, the faces.

　　I sit at a table near the back, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea I do not drink. I wore jeans and a loose sweater, my hair pulled back. I look like a woman waiting for a friend, not a woman about to face the husband she left five months ago.

　　He walks through the door at exactly the appointed time.

　　Nathaniel Preston.

　　He looks different. Thinner. The sharp angles of his face are sharper now, his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed. His suit is expensive, perfectly tailored, but there is a crease in his collar, a detail the old Nathaniel would never have allowed. He has not been sleeping.

　　He stops when he sees me. For a moment, he does not move. Something crosses his face. Not anger. Not relief. Something closer to fear.

　　He crosses the room slowly. He stands across from me, his eyes fixed on my face, then dropping to my stomach, hidden beneath the loose fabric.

　　He knows. Or he suspects.

　　I meet his gaze.

　　I tell him to sit.

　　He sits.