"Maybe not for sure." She smoothed his beard-stubbled cheek.
"What matters is that it's over." He took her hand and kissed it. "What matters is that I love you and I love Mallory and I love Mattie and I want us to be a family."
She lifted her head, pressing her chin to his chest. "You haven't asked me the question."
"What question?"
"You know what question. About Mallory. About what I said that night about you being her father."
He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them to look into hers. "It doesn't matter to me if she's mine or not, I only—"
Rachel pressed her finger to his mouth. "She's yours, Noah."
Noah suddenly felt light-headed. "She's mine?" he whispered. "But she's so healthy. How is that possible? The boys—"
"The boys were born with the wrong combination of our genes and she wasn't. She got lucky—we got lucky. Mallory was born perfect. There's no further explanation."
"But she could carry the bad gene?"
"She could. She probably does, but what happened to us—with the boys—could only happen if she married a man who also carries the faulty gene."
"Not likely."
"No, not likely, but they can do so much now. Think where science will be when she's old enough to want a child. Genetic counseling... tests."
"Why did you take the chance when we'd decided it wasn't worth the risk?"
"I didn't mean to get pregnant. I actually had gone to the fertility clinic to talk with the doctors about a sperm donation."
"Then I went to jail."
"Then you went to jail, and I found out I was pregnant," she whispered. Her eyes glistened with tears. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was just so angry with you."
"It's all right," he soothed, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose. "It doesn't matter, nothing matters but us. Us, now." He brushed the hair from her cheek so that he could see her face. "So will you?"
"Will I what?"
"Marry me?"
She glanced down, suddenly looking guilty, then back up at him. "Actually, I didn't exactly tell you the truth there, either."
"What do you mean? I signed the divorce papers your lawyer brought me in prison."
She turned in the bed, lifting up so that she looked down into his eyes. "You signed them, but I didn't," she whispered.
Noah was so shocked for a moment that he didn't know what to say. Then the lowered his head to the white pillow and laughed. Laughed as he hadn't in many years.
The End
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Here's an excerpt from
ARE YOU SCARED YET?
~
"Sorry to call you in on a Saturday, Swift." The shift commander approached Delilah in the narrow hallway of the stationhouse. "Chief said to call you in. Said you wouldn't be doing anything, anyway. Interview One."
Interview one was the only interview room in the tiny station. Stephen Kill police officers interrogated victims, criminals, and witnesses alike in the stark room. Fortunately, they had few interviews of any nature to conduct. The force mostly issued traffic citations, settled the occasional domestic dispute, and visited schools, churches, and volunteer organizations, educating the public on safety issues.
Delilah opened the manila file. Rob Crane, age nineteen. Missing twelve to eighteen hours. She knocked on the door and went in. "Good afternoon," she said offering her hand to a tall, slender man with a receding hair line. He was fit, somewhere in his late forties. "I'm Detective Swift."
He shook her hand. "Robert Crane. This is my wife, Sandy." He indicated the woman seated at the interview table.
"Something terrible has happened to Rob," Mrs. Crane insisted. "I just know it."
"He's nineteen, Sandy." Mr. Crane used a Father Knows Best tone of voice. "He's out sowing his oats, is all."
The worried mother looked at her husband, then at Delilah. "This isn't like him. To not come home. To not call."
Delilah slid into a chair, removing a pen from her pocket. "When was the last time you saw Rob?"
"Yesterday after work." Mrs. Crane knotted her hands. "About five-thirty. He asked me about our plans for the evening and then he went out.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"No."
"What time were you expecting him home?"
"Midnight." Mrs. Crane was emphatic.
"I see you've already written the names and phone numbers of all of Rob's friends in the area." Delilah glanced at the notes in the file. "Did you call them?"
"I called everyone I could think of. No one's heard from him."
Delilah scanned the list. There were a few girls' names, but mostly boys. "Rob have a girlfriend?"
Mrs. Crane shook her head. "Rob is an excellent student and a swimmer. You probably read the newspaper article about him this week. He didn't really have time for a girlfriend."
"And what about alcohol? Does he drink?"
"He's only nineteen." Mrs. Crane.
"Not much, you know, sneaks a beer here and there," Mr. Crane offered.
"And drugs?" Delilah tried to sound non-accusatory. "Prescription? Illegal?"
Mr. Crane frowned, his tone now touchy. "My son doesn't do drugs, Detective."
"I have a list of questions I'm expected to ask. Please don't take offense." looked down again. "Rob was driving the '97 Red Isuzu pick-up, is that correct?"
"Yes."
Delilah was quiet for a minute, checking to be sure she had all the information she needed. Mr. Crane was probably right, the boy was probably just out "sowing his oats." "I have what I need for now." She rose. "We'll make some phone calls. Alert our officers to keep a look out for Rob and his truck. We'll find him, Mrs. Crane. In the meantime,"—Delilah opened the door—"please go home and wait. Someone will call you the minute we know something. And, of course, if you hear from Rob, call us."
Delilah offered a half-smile, one she hoped was reassuring, and walked them to the lobby door. She watched them go then she went back down the hall toward Chief Calloway's office.
She knocked on the doorframe and stuck her head through the open doorway. "Call Swift in? She doesn't have a Saturday night date anyway?"
Snowden smiled from behind his desk, but he didn't look up from his computer screen. "That what Johnson said I said?"
"Doesn't matter." She entered the office. "I interviewed the Cranes. I'll start making phone calls. Give our patrol a description of the vehicle he was driving."
He glanced up. "He'll be home soon enough."
"That's what I was thinking."
He stared at her. "You need something else, Detective?"
She smiled, but she didn't respond. The door was open, anyone could walk by. They were always careful at work, no matter what shameless thoughts went through their heads. "I'm going to make these phone calls. See what I can find out."
"Keep me up to date."
"Will do." She walked out of the office, hoping she'd find Rob Crane before dark. That would give her time to get home, change the sheets, and take a shower before Snowden arrived.
***
Rob woke slowly, disoriented. His room was dark. No... not his room. A sense of panic fluttered in his chest as he felt the ground beneath him. He raised his head and then cringed, fingering the back of it. His hair was damp around the sore spot. Crusty.
He didn't know where he was. How he got here. It was so dark. Maybe he was still dreaming.
But images flashed in his mind like flip
ping pages from an old black and white textbook. He wasn't dreaming. They were real.
He remembered the beer cooler at store. The feel of the cold door handle.
The girl. She'd been laughing. Flirting with him. They made out in the front seat of his truck. Then...
Rob's head was pounding. It was hard to think. He sank back on his heels, still fighting the panic in his chest.
He remembered the taste of her mouth on his.
Then, out of nowhere, his head had felt as if it exploded. He must have fallen. Hit the floor.
Then nothing...
Now this. Overwhelming darkness. Dampness. The hard ground beneath him. "H... hello?" Rob called, trying not to be afraid.
"Anyone there? Annie?" She had said her name was Annie.
His hands found the rough planks of a wall. He was in a room of some sort. Small. Eight by six feet, max.
He felt tears sting behind his eyelids as he fought to stay calm.
She had done this to him, hadn't she? Annie? Locked him in here. But where was here? What was here?
It was just a dark room, but right now, it felt like a tomb.
~
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Are You Scared, Yet?
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Hunter Morgan has been writing and publishing books under various pseudonyms, in different genres for thirty years. With more than 130 books in print, she's written romance, mysteries, suspense and women's fiction and has been published world-wide and in multiple languages.
You can email Hunter through her publisher at
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Unspoken Fear Page 42