“About the baby’s”—a nod toward her stomach—“illness.”
She didn’t say anything. Fuck him. He’ll have to work for this.
“He told me that you’re thinking about terminating the pregnancy. Is that right?”
Rebecca stood up. “I think we’re done here.”
Rich stood, too. “I wish we were, but I’m afraid we’re not. You see, I think you’re being a little rash about your decision. I know Patrick thinks so, too.”
“What my husband thinks about this is none of your business.”
“It’s exactly my business.”
“Not when it comes to our private life.”
He shook his head sadly, like she was the silliest little girl in the whole wide world. “There is no ‘private’ for Patrick now and, by extension, you. He’s running for public office. That means he’s public property, and his family is public property.” Rich sat back down and gestured for her to sit, too, which she did, because her legs could no longer hold her up. “If you go through with this abortion, you’ll kill Patrick’s chances of ever being elected. I’m not just talking about the Senate seat, either. I’m talking any public office, ever. His whole career will be shot dead, just like that.” He punctuated this remark by making a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointing it squarely at her. “You don’t want to be responsible for killing your husband’s dream, do you?”
“Our baby’s condition is fatal. Did he tell you that? If I go through with the pregnancy, it”—she didn’t want to tell him that the baby was a girl, she didn’t want to give him a single precious inch—“will die in a matter of hours after I give birth. Days, maybe, if we’re particularly unlucky. It will be born specifically to die, and it will suffer horribly.”
He spread his hands wide. “Aren’t we all born just to die? Isn’t that what life is, when you drill right down to it?”
“So you think I should carry a baby that is destined to suffer and die so my husband can win an election.”
“It’s what Patrick wants.”
“Patrick wants to believe that the baby will be okay. That’s what Patrick wants. If he could snap his fingers and change this baby into a healthy, thriving child, he would do it, even if that meant giving up politics forever.”
“Rebecca, why do you think I’m here?”
“Because you’re an asshole?”
He allowed himself a small smile. “Apart from that.”
“Because you care about winning the election above everything else. Why else would you be here?”
He leaned forward in his chair. “Why do you think Patrick told me about your pregnancy?”
“He knew that it had the potential to have political fallout. Presumably, he wanted to get your advice.”
“He wanted more than my advice, Rebecca. He wanted me to do something about it.” Rich tilted his head as he looked at her. “You’re in a delicate position, sweetheart. I have friends in high places, friends who would be more than happy to do me a favor.”
“Are you threatening me?”
He held out his hands, supplicant. “Now, let’s not toss such a nasty word around. I would never want you to feel threatened. I just want you to know the reality of the situation you’re facing. All around the country, the winds are changing. New laws are coming into effect every day, and it’s only a matter of time before what you’re planning is finally made a crime in this country.” He smiled nastily. “I wouldn’t want you to fall foul of those changing winds, Rebecca. You never know how hard they might blow.”
Santa Rosa, New Mexico—120 Miles to Albuquerque
They were a couple miles away from the gas station when Cait remembered her Diet Coke. “Shit.”
Rebecca looked at her, eyes full of worry. “What’s wrong? Is it the gas tank again?”
Cait waved it away. “Nothing like that. I left my Coke back at the gas station, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Rebecca twisted the gold ring on her finger. “I thought it was him back there, you know. The driver. When he grabbed me, I thought he’d found us. I thought he was going to kill us.”
Cait nodded. “Me, too.”
“Do you think he’s out there looking for us?”
“Probably.” There was no point in lying to her. No point in lying about anything. They were in this together, for better or worse, until the bitter end. “But so far, he hasn’t found us. Hopefully our luck will hold.”
She heard Rebecca take a breath and braced herself for what was coming. “You said that people had been threatening you. Do you think . . . ?”
Did Cait think they were coming after her? “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone follow me out of Austin, and I was looking. They can’t trace the plates to me, either, so there’s no way to track me out here.” She glanced over at Rebecca. “Are you sure your husband doesn’t know where you are?”
“I’m sure,” Rebecca said, a little too quickly.
“Would he come looking for you if he did?”
“No.” A pause. “Not personally, at least.”
Cait shot her a look.
“His campaign manager,” Rebecca said. “He’s connected. He could get things done if he wanted to.”
“Do you think he wants to?”
Another pause. Finally, Rebecca nodded.
Cait blew out her breath. “Why would your husband let him do something like that?”
Rebecca looked at her, her eyes hollow. “Remember what I said about miracles?”
Cait nodded.
“He thinks if we just have faith, we can save our baby. He wants me to carry her to term so he can be proven right. And, of course, all his campaign manager cares about is how it will affect his poll numbers. Apparently, bringing a child into this world who is destined to suffer and die has better optics than a woman choosing to have an abortion.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want her to be used as a political pawn or as proof of faith. She deserves better than that.”
“You do, too.”
Rebecca shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I deserve. I would give anything in this world to make my child healthy, but that’s not possible. Trust me, if I thought there was even the slimmest chance . . .”
Cait nodded. “What are you going to tell him?”
“I’m going to tell him that I had a miscarriage while he was away.”
“Do you think he’ll believe you?”
“I don’t know.” Rebecca paused. “I hope so.”
“So you still want to be married to him. After everything.” Cait tried to keep her voice neutral.
“I love him,” she said simply. And then, “He’s a good man. I have to believe that.”
Cait had to stifle her disbelief. No more judgment, she reminded herself. You’re standing in a house made of glass. “Do you think he’ll win?”
Rebecca looked at her. “What?”
“Your husband. Do you think he’ll win the election?”
“Oh. I don’t know. Maybe. The poll numbers are good.”
“I think he will.”
“You do?”
Cait nodded. “He’s the type of guy who wins. You can tell by looking at him.” She paused. “Will you vote for him?”
Rebecca had never been asked the question before, had never even considered it. “Will I vote for him?” she repeated, stalling for time.
Cait didn’t bother to hide her smile. “Yeah. Will you go into that voting booth on March whatever-the-day-is and fill in the little bubble next to your husband’s name?”
Rebecca opened her mouth. Hesitated. “No.”
Cait’s eyebrows went into her hairline. “You won’t?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Will you tell him you voted for him?”
“Honestly? I don’t think he’ll ask.”
“You’ll have to do that photo op, probably, of the two of you walking up to the voting place together, holding hands and smiling for the camera.”
“He tends to keep me out of the
politics stuff. I’ve done a few rallies, but no press yet.”
“That’ll change when he gets elected. You’ll be a senator’s wife. Public property.”
Rebecca winced. “Don’t say that.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to you, with that speech . . . I don’t think he had any idea that it would blow up in the way it did.”
Even as Rebecca said this, she wasn’t entirely sure it was true. There were a lot of things she’d thought he was incapable of doing that now felt all too possible.
“I’m afraid I won’t be voting for him, either,” Cait said. “Though I don’t think my vote’s going to be the one that stops him.”
Rebecca turned her face toward the window. “You’re right. I don’t think anything will.”
Eight Days Earlier
Cait was sure someone was following her. It was a sunny Monday afternoon, and she watched the black Dodge Durango snake its way through Windsor Park, staying a few car lengths behind the Jeep but always there when she looked in the rearview mirror. Eventually, she punched her way through a yellow light on Manor Road and pulled around back of the Dairy Queen and waited until she saw the Durango drive past.
It had been two days since Adam had told her that someone had come looking for her. Two whole days, and still nothing had happened. Not only that, but the message boards had quieted down, or at least the ones she could access. She kept the knife tucked under her pillow, but she’d managed to grab a few hours of sleep last night, before a stray animal scurrying in the bushes outside sent her flying out of bed.
Maybe people were starting to forget about her again. They had found—like they always did—someone else to hate. She allowed herself to think that she might be safe.
But then that Dodge Durango appeared in her rearview mirror, the windshield tinted black, and she knew that had been a lie.
She waited in the DQ parking lot for ten minutes, watching a pair of pigtailed girls suck Blizzards through straws, before she edged the Jeep’s nose back out on the road. She drove home slowly, carefully, diving down back streets and doubling back, but she didn’t catch another glimpse of the truck. Whoever it was, he must have given up. For now, at least.
Adam was raking leaves when she pulled up in front of the house. He raised a hand to wave hello, but when he saw the look on her face, he dropped the rake and strode over to the Jeep, where she was still sitting in the driver’s seat, her belt still clipped in, her hands still tight on the steering wheel.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yep, thanks!” She was trying for a bright bluster, but she could hear the tremble in her voice. She reached for the buckle and found that her hands were shaking too badly to unfasten it.
He was watching her through the window. “You need some help?”
She shook her head. If she could just get her hands to work, she could get out of the car and walk across the lawn and open the door to her little apartment and lock it behind her. She could check all the windows and pull down the shades and she could crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head and she could—what? Wait for them to come?
She’d been a fool to think this was over. It would never be over, she knew that now. They would always try to find her.
Adam pulled open the driver’s-side door and reached in to unbuckle her seat belt. “Come on,” he said, holding out a hand and helping her down from the seat.
He led her into his apartment and sat her down at his kitchen table while he poured a few fingers of vodka into a tumbler. “Sorry,” he said, watching her wince as she tipped it down. “It’s all I have.”
They sat in silence for a minute as she let the liquor do its work. “Thank you,” she said finally. “Sorry I went all weird like that.”
“Don’t worry about it. You want another?” She shook her head and he took her empty glass, rinsed it out in the sink, and sat down across from her. “What happened?”
“It was nothing. I thought I saw someone following me, but . . .” She was embarrassed now, by her shaking hands and her paper-thin nerves and her overactive imagination. She should be tougher than this. Stronger. “It was stupid. I was just being paranoid.”
He was watching her carefully. “Is this about the guy who came looking for you a couple days ago?”
She suddenly felt the walls closing in on her, too tight. “I should go,” she said, scraping her chair back from the table. “Thanks again for the help, and the vodka. Sorry if I—” She didn’t finish her sentence. There were so many things she was sorry for at this point, she didn’t know where to begin. “I owe you a drink,” she said, forcing a smile, and she rushed to the door as fast as she could without breaking into a full run.
Her front door was unlocked. Had she left it like that? She didn’t have time to think about it. She slammed the door shut and locked it behind her. Across the lawn, she saw Adam’s silhouette in the window, watching to make sure she got in safely. She raised a hand to signal that she was okay, and he disappeared.
She spent the rest of the day in her darkened living room, waiting to hear something scratching at the door, hoping to get inside.
Outskirts of Santa Rosa, New Mexico—110 Miles to Albuquerque
The desert had started to undulate, rising into soft, sloping hills fringed with shrubs and prickly pear. It felt like, after a long, blank sleep, the land around them was finally waking up.
There were a few more cars on the road, too, mainly eighteen-wheelers whose drivers had emerged from wherever they’d parked overnight and were looking to get a jump on the morning traffic.
It was morning now, or nearly, the clock ticking past five-thirty even though the sky remained stubbornly black. At this time of year, Rebecca knew it would be another couple of hours before the sun made an appearance. She’d been waking up in the pitch black for weeks, fingers fumbling toward Patrick’s side of the bed and finding only cold sheets. He liked to get up early and head to the gym before work. He used to kiss her goodbye before he left, but now he just slipped out of bed and disappeared.
She thought about what Cait had said, about Patrick being one of life’s winners. It was true: that was one of the things she’d loved most about him. It wasn’t that he was arrogant, though he could be at times. It was more that he believed so completely that life would turn out the way he wanted it to, if he just tried hard enough. When she first met him, she found that kind of confidence intoxicating. He took up space in this world without apology, and encouraged her to do the same. That is, until his vision for what their life should be like started to diverge from hers.
She didn’t remember him being particularly religious when they were younger. He talked about having faith sometimes, and he would go to the Baptist church in Hamilton Square on Ash Wednesday and spend the rest of the day with soot smudged between his eyes. Their first Christmas together, they’d gone to midnight Mass in Alameda, leaving her father dozing on the couch while they held hands in the darkened church and breathed in the incense and the fresh pine of the tree beside the altar. She’d thought that it was tradition for him more than belief, but then he’d started working at the DA’s office, and talk over dinner turned decidedly more biblical.
After they moved to Texas, his faith deepened further. He started to go to church every Sunday and encouraged her to come along. She agreed to go once, just to see what it was like. Patrick had joined one of the huge megachurches that seemed to populate every second street in Lubbock, though he said proudly that this was one of the most popular in the city. “It’s like a big party,” he told her, eyes shining. “You’ll love it.”
When she’d first walked through the double doors into the vast atrium filled with thousands of people singing and praying and holding their hands up to God, and heard the swell of music coming from the loudspeakers, she’d felt something stir inside. It was nothing like the Catholic Masses she’d attended as a kid, with their endless, droning hymns and the stifling i
ncense and the priest peacocking in his gold-embroidered vestments.
Here, the pastor was a young guy in jeans and a button-down, and he threw around words like “buddy” and “chill.” He talked about how we all failed, and how that made us human, and beautiful, and still loved by God. “God doesn’t want perfection,” he said at one point, as behind him a man holding an electric guitar twanged out a few opening chords. “He wants love, just like the rest of us.”
Rebecca had thought about that idea as the lite-rock version of “How Great Thou Art” swelled and the crowd began to sway. She had let her body sway along with the music and had held on to Patrick’s hand as he lifted it up in devotion, and for a second, she’d sensed what it would feel like to be loved the way Patrick knew he was loved: infinitely and without judgment.
But the feeling didn’t last. The next time she went, all she could see was the cheap nylon carpet and the plastic folding chairs and the look of desperation on the faces of the people as they raised their hands up to this man with his jeans and his “hey, buddy,” and the whole thing filled her with such deep sadness that she had to close her eyes to stop the tears from coming. Of course, Patrick had seen this and assumed she was having a moment of conversion. She’d never forget the look of sheer joy on his face when she opened her eyes and saw him watching her. Like she was a long-lost dog who’d finally found its way back to the warmth of its home.
At night, after he’d gone to sleep, she’d lain awake staring at the ceiling and conjured up the paintings that hung on the walls of her Sunday school classroom. Jesus, head haloed in gold, heart laid bare for all to see, a mass of red wreathed in thorns. She willed her own chest to crack open, ribs split down the middle and splayed, the muscle of her heart waiting to be filled with God’s love.
“You just have to believe.” That’s what Patrick told her when he placed his hands on her swollen stomach and prayed, lips moving silently, eyes shut tight against the evil swarming around them. She would sit there, numb, and wait for him to finish. Even after the scan, when every cell in her body wanted to believe in the miracle he promised, her soul stayed stubbornly unmoved. “All you need is faith,” he said, cradling her face in his hands. “Please, baby. Just make the leap.”
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