by Lisa Regan
I had to get him back on track. “Blake, what are we going to do about my baby?”
“It will be our baby,” he said. “We’ll be a family. I’ll take care of you both.” He sat beside me and took my hand. Again, I resisted the urge to snatch it away. “What are we having?” he asked. “Did you find out the sex?”
I thought of Sarah Foster and the baby she had given up. “We’re having a girl,” I lied.
“A girl,” he echoed.
Several minutes passed by and we sat side by side, hand in hand. In my mind I said a mantra to my unborn son: This is just to get us out of this alive. This is just to get us out of this alive.
Blake was remarkably calm when he said, “But why did you fight me today? Why did you try to get away?”
“You shot two people in cold blood—one of whom is my best friend. You scared me.”
He took his hand away from mine and rubbed his temples. “I don’t remember.”
“Blake,” I said softly. “If this is really going to work then I need to be able to trust you.”
“Fine, fine,” he mumbled. He opened the top dresser drawer and pulled out the gun. He handed it to me. I cradled it in my lap. He also handed me a box of ammo which I set on the bed beside me. I tried to calculate how long it would take me to load the gun and pull the trigger, but it would not be enough time to get a shot off before he stopped me, and then the work I’d done in the last hour would be for nothing.
“Thank you,” I said. “There’s just one more thing I need from you.”
“What?”
I held eye contact, unblinking. “I need you to promise me that the other Blake will never come back …that you won’t black out anymore.”
He grimaced as if he were in pain. “What?”
I put a hand over my belly. “I need to know that you’ll never become that person again.”
“But I can’t—I, I—” he stammered. He put both palms on the dresser and leaned against it, his back to me. “I can’t control it.”
“But you have to,” I said. “You have to or this won’t work.”
“It comes and it goes. When I’m under stress, it’s worse but maybe if we’re together, I can control it. I can try. I’ll try.”
I put the gun on the bed and stood up. Again, I did my best to mask my repulsion as I went to him. I tried to imagine that I was looking at Jory. I put a hand to Blake’s cheek. “Oh Blake,” I murmured. “That’s just not enough. I need to know for sure that the blackouts will never happen again.” I patted my stomach. “Our lives depend on it.”
His brow wrinkled. “What are you talking about?”
“Today when you were dragging me back to the truck it was you, but it wasn’t you. I got control of the gun, and you said there were no bullets.”
“I don’t keep it loaded.”
“But it was loaded,” I pointed out. “You shot two people at the store. Then when we were in the street and I aimed at you, you said that there were only two bullets in it—one for me and one for you.”
He looked horrified. He mumbled something. I thought it sounded like “the beast”.
“What?” I said.
He shook his head. “No.”
More tears were not hard to muster. They slid down my face. “Don’t you see? The other Blake is cold and violent. He was going to kill me. That’s what he meant to do. Murder-suicide.”
“No, no, no,” he protested.
“He will kill me,” I said. “And our daughter. I’m afraid of him.”
His face betrayed a range of emotions—confusion, anxiety, disbelief and finally, skepticism. “Wait,” he said. “You’re trying to trick me. This is a trick. You’re lying to me. I don’t remember, so you’re filling my head with lies. You want me to think that.”
I shook my head. “I have no reason to lie to you other than I am scared, Blake. You say you don’t keep your gun loaded, but it was loaded today, and you shot two people. Check your ammo.”
He went to the bed and dumped the bullets, counting them up.
“Two bullets,” I repeated. “One for me and one for you.”
“No.”
“You know that when you black out you get violent—I saw what you did to Deborah Bittler and Mrs. Gerst.”
He sat on the bed next to the scattered bullets.
“And your parents,” I added. “Please. I’m begging you to keep that from happening to me. If you really love me, if you really want to protect me, you’ll make him go away for good.”
He looked like he might cry. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t control it.”
I waited several minutes, letting his mind work through it, labor over it. I only had one shot at this, and even that was risky.
We both jumped when the phone beside the bed rang. Blake stood over the nightstand, staring at the phone. I glanced at the muted television and saw a live news break. The bottom of the screen said Manassas. A message scrolled along the bottom: Police corner suspected serial killer at local motel. Aerial footage showed a SWAT team and several other law enforcement personnel surrounding a motel, guns drawn.
The phone kept ringing. Blake turned to me, confusion knitting his brow.
I tried to look scared instead of relieved. It wasn’t over yet. “They’re here,” I said.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
WYATT
November 29th
Blake slapped himself on the side of the head. Abruptly the phone stopped ringing.
“Stupid,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have gone into the store across the street. I knew it. I’m sorry.” Careful not to ruffle the stiff brown curtains, he peeked out the window. He counted at least three Prince William County police cruisers, one black, unmarked vehicle with its driver’s side door hanging open and what looked like a large van behind it. Some kind of SWAT team, he realized. The phone rang again. He looked at it, then at Kassidy. “What do I do?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “They’ll want to negotiate.”
He paced in front of the phone. “Shit, shit,” he said.
Kassidy backed away from him, covering her belly. “Blake, I’m scared,” she said.
“It’ll be okay,” he assured her, but even to himself, he sounded weak and unconvincing. “I’ll figure this out. I can do this.”
Then he heard the thunder. He froze, cocking his head to the side, waiting for it to come again. It wasn’t raining outside. It wasn’t even overcast. “Do you hear that?” he said.
“Hear what? The phone?”
“No, the thunder.”
Kassidy shook her head. Her mouth turned down, her forehead wrinkling. “You’re scaring me,” she said again, her voice smaller this time.
“It will be okay,” he said, but he could not quell the rising panic. His stomach felt like it was in his throat. His hands shook. He looked down at them and squeezed them into tight fists. Squeeze and release. Squeeze and release. The tremors remained. He resumed pacing. His vision seemed to flutter. The room began to look far away, as if he were disappearing down a deep well.
“Blake,” Kassidy said, drawing him back. “He’s coming back. He’s going to come back. You said stress makes you black out—”
As the room came back into sharp focus, he held up a palm. “Stop,” he said. “I can do this.”
He cocked his head again, listening. The phone stopped ringing. No thunder.
“Then there’s only one option,” she said. “You have to turn yourself in.”
His head snapped toward her. Her words were like a slap to the face. “What?”
“It’s the only way,” she said. “You can’t control your other. What if he kills me and our child?”
He shook his head frantically, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again, blinkin
g hard, purposefully. “Then I’ll leave,” he said. “I’ll go away, and I won’t come back until I can control it.”
“But you can’t control it. Even if you go out on your own there’s always the chance that he’ll take over, come back and kill us. I’ll never be safe. The only real way to protect me and to protect our family is to turn yourself in.”
“You’re trying to trick me,” he said, moving closer and peering into her face.
She held her ground, staring at him unblinking, her expression open and earnest. “No. I’m being honest with you. Do you love me?”
He nodded, wanting to reach out and touch her. Stroke her hair. Hold her hand. Touch the skin at the hollow of her throat.
“You loved your sister too, didn’t you?” she murmured.
He nodded again, thinking of Sarah and her small, ruined life. He hadn’t been able to save her from one damn thing.
“You went to see her,” Kassidy said.
Surprised, he said, “She told you?”
She didn’t respond to his question. “Things didn’t really work out for her, did they? You loved her. You tried to protect her. Her life now—it’s not what you wanted for her, is it?”
He held up a hand. He had never discussed his sister with another living soul, not even Dusty. The subject was too painful. “Stop,” he said, his voice throaty.
“You have a chance right now to make things right—with me. You have a chance to do the right thing. They are out there right now. They’re here for you. You know if you try to get away they’ll kill you. Just turn yourself in. If you want to protect me, you’ll do this for me.”
“What you’re asking—” he began.
Kassidy advanced toward him. “What I’m asking you is to do something that is in your power to do. What I am asking is that you not stand by and do nothing when you could easily take action.”
He thought of what that would mean. Prison. Being locked away with heartless, soulless criminals. Like when he was a teenager, only worse. He didn’t want to do it. He wanted to be with her. But he knew she was right. He couldn’t control his blackouts, not even with medication. He had tried so hard to show her how much he loved her—the lengths he would go to in order to prove his devotion, but if he couldn’t protect her from himself, why shouldn’t he go to prison? His other was violent and aggressive, mean and seemingly remorseless—he was no better than Nico Sala. Knowing this, and staying with her anyway, Blake would be no better than those men in the bathroom who knew something horrible was happening in the stall and did nothing to stop it. His shoulders slumped. He let his chin sink to his chest. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Who is worse? The person committing the crime, or the person who sees it and does nothing?”
She said, “What do you think Deborah Bittler would say?”
“That’s not fair,” he replied, defeat spreading through his limbs like an ache. “Why not just let them kill me?”
She took a step toward him. She looked into his face, her eyes brimming with tears, making it impossible to look away. “I love you too much to let them kill you.”
His heart caught in his throat. God, how he wanted to believe her. But he knew she was capable of manipulating him. Her best option in this situation was for him to turn himself in. She wouldn’t want to take the chance of bullets flying with her baby at risk. How long would they wait before they stormed the room?
The phone started ringing again.
“If you want me to do this,” he said. “I’m going to need something from you. A gesture of good faith.”
“Like what?” she asked.
He smiled at her, his expression imploring. He reached for her cheek, the skin warm and soft under his fingertips. “A kiss,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
KASSIDY
He cupped my face in his hands. I let him pull me in and tried to picture Jory—his lips, his eyes, his hands on my cheeks. This is just to get us out of this alive, I promised my baby again. I closed my eyes as Blake’s mouth sank onto mine. The kiss was light, tentative. I didn’t move, hoping he wouldn’t feel the tension in my rigid body. His hands moved down to my shoulders, snaking down my arms and sliding around my waist. He tried to pull me in closer, but my belly kept him from pressing his whole body against mine. I tried to keep from shuddering. I felt so nauseous, I thought I might vomit. The baby kicked rapidly.
Blake’s tongue probed my mouth. I hoped he would feel the gentle resistance of my sealed lips and stop, but the kiss only became more forceful, until he was crushing me against him. My teeth dug into the inside of my lips. One of his hands moved upward and tangled in the back of my hair. He pulled away from me, and I knew instantly from the cold gleam in his eyes that he had changed.
The phone stopped ringing. He jerked my head to the side. I cried out as he pushed me onto the bed. I fell onto my side but quickly scooted onto my knees. “You lying bitch,” he spat.
We both lunged for the gun at the same time. The ammo box tumbled off the bed, bullets flying everywhere. My hand closed around the handle first. It was useless, really. It wasn’t loaded. But he had pistol-whipped me once already that day, and I wasn’t about to let him do it again. I brought the barrel of the gun up, catching him under the chin. His hand flew to his face, but he kept coming toward me. I took another swing at his temple with the gun, but his hands were already on my throat, squeezing. We went down together, on our sides. I dropped the gun and reached up with both hands, feeling for his pinky fingers. I pried one of them loose and bent it all the way back. I heard a loud snap and he screamed, the sound so high it was almost girlish.
I kicked at him, aiming for his crotch. “You fucking bitch,” he roared. I kicked again and again until he rolled off the side of the bed and fell onto the floor.
The muffled, incoherent sound of a man’s voice filtered through a megaphone came from outside. I scrambled for the door. I had one hand on the knob when Blake’s hand closed around my ankle. I looked down. His injured hand was tucked against his stomach. His face was contorted in pain, but with his good hand, he held onto my leg as hard as he could, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above my ankle. I braced myself against the door and kicked at his head with my good foot, until he let go in favor of covering his face.
I yanked the door open and stumbled outside, breathing heavily. My legs were weak and shaking. I fell to my knees and looked up into the barrels of at least six guns. My hands shot up into the air. I heard rustling behind me, inside the room. Then stuttered footsteps and Blake’s high-pitched voice. “Get back here, you ungrateful whore.”
The sound of a round being chambered sent an ice cold chill through my body.
“Don’t shoot!” I yelled.
At least three of them were screaming at Blake. “Hands up! Hands up! Get your hands up!”
I felt his hand clamp down on my shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the spray of bullets. Instead I heard boots, heavy and loud, like the sound of horses galloping. My body was jostled. Someone brushed against me. Loud male voices shouted, “Get down! Get down!”
Slowly, I started to bring my hands down to the asphalt when a hand nudged my arm gently. “Miss,” a man said.
I opened my eyes to see a police officer in full tactical gear, his rifle held at the ready in front of him, the barrel pointed toward the ground. To my left, three other officers had Blake Foster pinned on his stomach as they cuffed him. He struggled, his body flopping around like a landed fish. Then abruptly his body seized and went still.
“What the hell?” one of the officers said.
Blake’s eyelids fluttered again, just as they had in the parking lot before he had kidnapped me. He was changing.
The officer standing beside me touched my shoulder. I stared up at him, uncomprehending. “Are you okay, Miss?” he said.
; He reached to help me stand. My legs were like rubber. More officers and EMTs converged on me. They herded me toward an ambulance. I looked back over my shoulder and met Blake’s eyes. Gone was the calculated rage. Instead, he looked sad. Very sad.
He opened his mouth to speak. I stopped, pulling back against the men surrounding me. “Wait, wait,” I mumbled. I strained to hear Blake’s words.
“You were right,” he said, his voice low and raspy. “I—I can’t control the beast.”
He closed his eyes, and I turned away, searching the faces around me for someone familiar. Finally, TK emerged from the crowd of law enforcement. He swallowed me up into his arms, holding me tightly.
“It’s over,” he said into the top of my head. “It’s over.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
KASSIDY
December 1st
I woke to a rustling noise and the overpowering smell of flowers. I opened my eyes to see Isaac grinning at me from behind an enormous flower arrangement. He set them on the table next to my hospital bed. It had been two days since Blake Foster was taken into custody. I saw no reason to be in the hospital other than the mild concussion Foster had given me, but the doctors insisted on keeping me for a few days to monitor the baby.
My father, who had been stationed in the chair next to my bed for forty-eight hours, stood up and stretched. He shook hands with Isaac and mumbled something about coffee before leaving the room.
Isaac jammed his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “I saw your mom outside,” he said. “She looks tired.”
The baby had started kicking as Isaac talked. I put a palm over my stomach, feeling his tiny thumps. “Yeah, neither one of my parents has slept,” I said.
Isaac sighed and kicked lightly at the leg of the chair my father had just vacated. “How do you feel?”
I shrugged. “Fine. I’m fine. I just want to go ho—”