He carried her back to the Suburban, shouting at the agents to get her to a hospital. Sitting in the back, he put his forehead to hers and touched his hand to her neck so he could feel the comforting thrum of her pulse. And he talked to her. Whispered how much he loved her. How scared she’d made him. How he didn’t want to wait to tell people they were together. That he didn’t want to be friends. That he would be anything she needed. And everything.
He talked and talked. When he looked up, it was because someone had opened the car door. They had stopped in a large field, a chopper in its center, the propellers kicking ice in a sweeping circle. Two paramedics stood at the door, motioning for him to bring Anna. He helped them get her on the gurney and carry her to the helicopter, feeling the power of the propellers on the bare skin of his head.
“I’m afraid you can’t—” one of the paramedics told him.
“No,” Hal said, and climbed in beside her.
The two paramedics stepped away and spoke to one of the FBI agents. Only one returned, climbing into the helicopter on the other side of Anna. Soon, they were in the air. Hal watched the monitor as the paramedic attached an IV and checked her vitals. He followed the directions the paramedic gave him, keeping one hand on her arm, feeling her skin against his. He would not let go. Not ever again.
When they landed in Boise, they took her away from him. He called his mother, then Roger and Harper, and finally Georgia Schwartzman. Short calls. She was alive. They were at a hospital in Idaho. He would call later. He had hours to kill, but he couldn’t kill them on the phone. He couldn’t talk. Couldn’t form sentences. He spent every second on his feet, pacing the family waiting area and praying. I can’t live without her. Please, God. I cannot live without that woman. Over and over and over.
And then the doctor came out. Smiling. “Dr. Schwartzman is very dehydrated, but otherwise, she’s okay.”
“Is she talking?”
“She is. A bit. She told me to tell you she was all right.”
Hal almost fell to his knees. She was all right. That was all he’d asked. Then he thought about the pregnancy. The baby. He’d only asked God for Anna, afraid that asking for the baby was too much. Now he felt like he’d failed her. “She’s—she was pregnant.”
The doctor nodded. “Blood test confirms high levels of HCG, so everything looks good there, too. There’s no way to know much more at this point.” The doctor nodded toward the door behind him. “You want to come see her? She might be asleep, but—”
“Yes. Yes, please.”
Over the next twelve hours in Boise, Hal watched Anna. Mostly, he watched her sleep. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He remembered when she was in the hospital almost two years earlier. Anna had woken in her apartment to find Ken Macy—a colleague she’d been out with a single time—unconscious in her bed. Macy had been stabbed eighteen times. Anna had been brought to the hospital, and Hal had spent that night sleeping in the chair beside her. He’d woken the next morning to discover the hospital bed empty. Fearful of being blamed for the attack on Ken Macy and driven by the need to try to stop Spencer MacDonald on her own, Anna had flown to Charleston. Hal recalled the fear he’d felt when he’d woken and she was gone. The frustration.
Now he slept with his head on her bed, his hand resting on her shin or one arm draped protectively across her. She moved, and he woke. He didn’t get much sleep, but every time he opened his eyes to the sight of her, it was like waking to a dream. She was safe. She was there. He could touch her and prove it to himself. So he did. Again and again.
The next day, with the help of a call from the governor of California, Hal got Anna flown home to San Francisco, where she would return to Zuckerberg San Francisco General Hospital. Like the doctors in Boise, the ones at General assured him that she was a little dehydrated but otherwise fine.
As she regained her strength, Roger and Hailey visited. His mother came. Anna was in good spirits, alert and with increased energy each day. The only thing she didn’t want to talk about was the pregnancy. The doctors had opinions about what type of screening she should do—based on the trauma she’d been through, based on her age, based on the “miscarriage” of her first pregnancy. Anna refused them all.
Each time a doctor brought it up, she cut them off. “I don’t want to hear anything about it,” she said. “There’s no reason to believe anything is wrong with the baby. No tests, please.” The yearning in her voice had brought him to tears.
Some of the doctors were more reasonable than others. One simply reminded her to eat well and take her vitamins.
“Of course,” Anna had said. “I’ll do everything to keep him healthy.”
Him.
But it was more complicated than that. She’d been drugged. There was no way to know what kind or how much of an impact the drugs had had on the baby. They might see the adverse effects of the drug during the midpregnancy ultrasound. The baby might measure small because of delayed growth, or there could be more serious birth defects.
Other issues could arise once the baby was born. Still others would be unknown until the baby was a toddler . . . or later. Anna didn’t want to know if there was something wrong with the baby because she would raise him despite complications.
And Hal would be there.
“Everything’s okay,” one doctor whispered to Hal in the hallway after Anna had told her to stop talking about the pregnancy. Hal wanted to scream at the doctor. What right did she have to tell him everything was all right?
He’d almost lost Anna.
The baby was all right—that was what the doctor was saying, he was certain. But he didn’t want to hear that either. He wanted to respect Anna’s request. And he wanted her home as soon as possible.
In the quiet hours when he couldn’t sleep, he reminded himself that it was over. Tyler Butler, who they’d known at the morgue by his brother’s name, Roy, had been arrested.
Butler had been MacDonald’s cellmate during the short time MacDonald was in prison after his initial arrest. Butler had been serving time for setting fire to a synagogue filled with worshippers during a white supremacist rally. Thankfully, no one had been harmed, though the building was a total loss. MacDonald had kept in touch with Butler, who’d worked for a coroner before his arrest. MacDonald figured he might be useful if he could get a job in Anna’s morgue. When the time came, he had helped Butler get a job with the SFPD, using Roy’s name, since Tyler Butler had a record. With Tyler inside the morgue, MacDonald had eyes on Anna.
MacDonald.
There was no more MacDonald.
Spencer MacDonald is dead.
And for the first time in many years, Anna was safe.
52
Thursday, 4:30 p.m. PST
After two days of observation and IV fluids, Anna was released by the doctors at Zuckerberg San Francisco General with a clean bill of health. Hal’s mother had spent much of that time tidying Anna’s house and filling the refrigerator and freezer with meals to last a month. For his part, Hal spoke daily to the Idaho FBI office handling the case against Tyler Butler. Butler’s mother had been arrested and charged as an accessory to Anna’s kidnapping. The real Roy Butler was in the custody of social workers who understood his needs. Anna had been relieved to hear that the young man with Down syndrome was being cared for.
While the FBI sent Hal a steady stream of reports, it was Spencer MacDonald’s autopsy that provided the biggest relief. Hal had witnessed the dead Spencer MacDonald with his own two eyes, but the fact that MacDonald’s dental records and fingerprints had been matched to the body was a welcome confirmation.
Spencer MacDonald was really dead.
Hal and Telly kept in regular contact, too. Between other cases, Telly was working to identify Bryce Scala’s shooter. It seemed likely that MacDonald was involved, and Telly hoped MacDonald’s computer and phone would provide a suspect. Along with a couple of agents who specialized in financial crimes, Telly was also digging into MacDonald’s computer to locate t
he hacker, Caleb, who had made millions for himself and MacDonald through insider trading.
Telly was also working to identify the potential investors MacDonald had met with in Dallas, Denver, and Detroit on the chance that their identities could help the authorities locate Caleb. Penny Moore, the octogenarian widow MacDonald had dined with at Sapphire in Dallas, told authorities that MacDonald had been recommended by an old work contact of her husband’s, but she’d been unable to provide the FBI with any helpful information, like a name. Telly had his work cut out for him.
But Hal had to hand it to the young agent. He did really good work with his nose in those damn reports. Anna had insisted on sending him something for his help. After some back-and-forth, they’d decided on a generous gift certificate to Sapphire. Hal had signed the card, Now you can eat truffle fries every night for a month . . . Yuck. And then Anna had added, Love and gratitude, Hal and Anna. Hal wasn’t much for mushy sentiment, but he didn’t argue.
Now that all the pieces of the case were in the right hands, Hal could slow down enough to think about moving on with their lives. The drive from the hospital to Anna’s house felt unreal, like moments of a dream. He found himself brushing a hand against her leg or shoulder, unable or unwilling to let physical space come between them. They parked at the curb, and Hal helped her out of the car. Together, they walked toward the house, and he found himself wondering what would happen from here. How would they be now?
Hal unlocked the front door, and Anna stopped on the threshold, hesitant. Buster greeted her, his tail wagging. Anna rubbed his head distractedly.
“What is it?” Hal asked. More than ever, he was tuned to her every expression and word, as though all the days of being without her had left him starved of some vital nutrient.
She scanned the front room. “I don’t want to live here . . .”
Hal surveyed her house from the door. He was afraid to ask where their relationship stood, afraid to mention making a change to be together, to live together. They had yet to discuss it, and the fear that being with him wasn’t what she wanted overshadowed everything. He’d promised himself that he would give her space and time. She might not be ready, after all that had happened. “If you don’t want to live here, we can find you somewhere else. Or . . .”
She shook her head. “That’s not what I mean.” She turned to him slowly, and he set her duffel down, taking her hands and searching her face.
“What is it, Anna?”
“I don’t want to live here alone,” she said.
Hal met her gaze. The seriousness in her eyes broke momentarily, and he caught a flash of her playful self. “Anna?”
“Will you move in?” she asked.
His heart dropped. He wanted to pick her up and spin her around, but he was terrified of hurting her. “Move in?”
She started to turn away from him, but he caught her hand.
“Yes. God, yes. I’d love to move in. I want to marry you, Anna. I want you to be my wife.” He felt a rush of pure joy and started to bend to one knee.
She pulled away. “No!”
He got back to his feet, flustered. “What? What is it?”
“I don’t want that.” She pulled her arms across her body. “I don’t know if I’ll ever want it.”
His fingers touched the place where his chest felt blown open. The room was suddenly too quiet and too loud, as though both were possible at once. He couldn’t breathe. He was sweating and chilled, and he thought he might be sick.
MacDonald had ruined her.
Hal froze in place. Tears filled his eyes. He shook his head, and they fell onto his cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re telling me.”
She stepped toward him, and he held a palm out, unsure if he could remain standing if she touched him.
“These past days have been—” He shook his head. “I don’t have a word for them, Anna. I wanted to die. I thought I would. And now you’re here. And—” He motioned to the baby that she wouldn’t let the doctors talk about. “And we might be having a child. And I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I understand you may not feel the same way. You’ve been through a lot. Maybe you need time and space. But I don’t.” He felt the tears slide into his mouth. “I don’t need time. I know what I want.”
With the words out, he turned to leave.
“Before you go,” she said, “can I talk?”
He swallowed hard, nodded.
Her lips curved into a smile as she got closer.
It might have been a cruel joke on her part, but he reached for her anyway. He was too far gone. If she let him go, if she pushed him away, he would not go easily. He would fight. Nothing she could do would be worse than what he’d already suffered.
Her hand gripped his, and his breath was whisked from his lungs.
“I don’t want to get married,” she said, moving close to him. “I don’t want to be married again. I don’t want to be a wife. I felt pressured into marrying Spencer. By the situation—my father’s death, my mother’s loneliness, her fear of being alone . . .”
She closed her eyes, and he thought of the rape she’d endured at MacDonald’s hands. On their first date. The anger flowed through him again. How she’d ended up married to him. What that must have been like.
If he could go back and kill MacDonald himself, he would.
She opened her eyes and stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I want to be your partner,” she whispered, then kissed the other cheek. The smell of her was overwhelming, and he wrapped his arms around her, unable to hold himself back.
“And I want to be your lover,” she said, kissing his lips and drawing away before he could kiss her back. “And your colleague and your best friend and your coparent . . . and everything else.”
“Except my wife.”
She grinned and pressed her nose to his lips. “Except your wife.”
“You want me to live here?”
“Yes,” she said. “Or we can find another house.”
“I love this house,” he said.
“Then let’s live here.”
It was as though there was too much air for the space in his chest. He breathed in her smell, feeling like he might explode with joy. “When are you thinking I would move in?”
“Today seems good.” She looked up, arms around his neck. “Can you live with that?”
He pressed his mouth to hers, holding her in his arms and breathing her in. Anna. His Anna. He lifted her off the ground and spun her in a circle. Gently.
She was laughing when he set her down again. “Is that a yes?” she asked.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
53
Nine weeks later
When she wasn’t at work, Schwartzman yielded to the strange physics of her body. Her hand gravitated to her lower back to support the extra weight on her front. She sat more and put her feet up, allowing the blood an opportunity to drain from her swollen feet. Even at work, she opted for flat, comfortable shoes, ones she hadn’t worn regularly since her residency.
Not quite twenty weeks pregnant, Schwartzman already felt huge. She was huge, but not nearly as huge as she would be. Halfway through pregnancy, she had gained almost thirty pounds. She’d opted not to do the genetic testing offered in her first trimester, though she’d had a complete blood panel done to be sure her levels were healthy. She took her prenatal vitamins and followed the guidelines for pregnancy nutrition. She found she’d lost her taste—at least temporarily—for coffee and wine and bourbon, which made adhering to the recommendations easy.
At her doctor’s appointments, with Hal by her side, they heard the baby’s heartbeat, strong and consistent. Despite the encouraging signs, when the time arrived for her midpregnancy ultrasound, she was nervous.
Terrified that the test would reveal some issue with the fetus, she willed her body to support the growing life, to keep it safe. Since returning home from Idaho, she’d been afraid that the pregnancy would terminate. In her mind, each twinge was
the start of a spontaneous abortion. She tried to maintain faith in her body’s ability to know what was needed, and if something went wrong, she wouldn’t blame herself.
If the pregnancy terminated, she would survive. She would go to the hospital and seek professional care. She didn’t have a death wish. The opposite, actually. She had a life wish. She felt awash with a renewed sense of purpose, at work and away from it.
Scott Theobold, the medical examiner brought in to cover her while she was gone, maintained a position in the morgue, picking up the slack from her reduced hours. She would not leave her job, but it would not own her either. The most important job she had was going on inside her own body.
Having Hal at the house made daily tasks much easier. He refused to let her lift anything heavier than a saucepan. By the time she’d been home from the hospital for a few weeks, he’d moved in completely. Together, they’d decided what things would be donated. About the recliner that had been his father’s, Hal was openly nervous. It wasn’t much to look at, but she knew it was important to him. They found a spot for it in the corner of the living room, and she could tell how happy that made him. Even Wiley, Hal’s cat, was slowly acclimating to the new space and the fact that she was sharing it with a dog.
As the ultrasound tech set up the machine, Hal gripped her hand.
She could feel his fear through the skin on his palms. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered.
“It’s going to be perfect,” he said.
The tech gave them a knowing smile and squirted cold, clear gel on the mound of her growing belly. She was larger than she had been when she was pregnant before—her first pregnancy had ended much earlier. She was older now—nine years older. Thirty-eight, and with all the increased risks.
She closed her eyes as the ultrasound wand pressed against her, listening to the whooshing as the sound waves echoed through her belly. Hal squeezed her hand, and she opened her eyes to watch the bright pulsing light on the screen.
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