Falling for the Killer

I looked tired and scared.

God, so scared.

“You’re going to tell them,” I whispered, and hoped that by saying it out loud, I’d somehow make it come true.

But that didn’t help.

I stood and paced across my room. It was a mess and I felt like I was just now noticing all the little details: stuffed animals from my childhood, CDs I hadn’t listened to in years, clothes piled up in the corner, my old pillow and comforter. I felt like a prisoner on death row waiting for the warden to come drag me off to the electric chair. I wanted to savor everything before my parents either murdered me or cast me out of the family or did something worse—like tried to make me get rid of this baby.

I wouldn’t do it, if it came to that. I’d rather live on my own than give up my child.

I didn’t know where this feeling came from. It bubbled up through me and suffused my blood and bones with complete and utter certainty. I couldn’t turn my back on my child any more than I could take my own life. This baby was a part of me now, and although I hadn’t planned it, I’d still step up and make sure this child was happy and loved and everything I’d want from a parent.

I wanted to raise my baby like my parents never raised me.

My hands trembled as I left my room and padded down the long hallway. The Adamson Manor was a massive structure with fifteen bedrooms and too many bathrooms to count. I was tucked away in the east wing, away from the main bustle of the house. I took the back stairs down to the first floor and stepped into the kitchen. Gleaming granite, lots of glass and beautiful silverware, and at least one priceless painting hung on the wall. Nobody used the stove or the oven except for staff. The place was immaculate, cleaned every morning and evening, even when it didn’t need to be. The kitchen opened into a dining room and a sitting room beyond that, where I found my mother lounging at a small cafe table recessed into a large bay window. She sipped tea and read the paper, and little wispy blonde hairs fell down around her wrinkled and neutral face. She looked up, but she didn’t seem happy to see me.

She never did.

“Hello, darling,” she said, her tone sounding bored. “When did you get home?”

“Recently,” I said and didn’t go into details. My parents barely bothered with me. So long as I kept doing what I was supposed to do, I could come and go as I pleased. The house was too big for them to track me, and besides, father was barely here, and Marcia was the one that really kept things going.

“Lovely,” mother said and went back to her paper.

I stepped closer and opened my mouth. I wanted to blurt it out: Mom, I’m pregnant, I got knocked up by some mafia guy and now I’m scared, but I won’t give up my baby, but I couldn’t make my tongue work. It felt frozen to the roof of my mouth.

I tried to imagine my mother making this kind of mistake and it seemed impossible. Evie Adamson was the perfectly bred aristocratic wife. She threw parties, luncheons, spontaneous gatherings, charity events, and essentially managed my father’s social life. She took his clients’ wives out for dinner and was charming when she had to be and ruthless in all her dealings. I used to read books where the mother was loving and kind and patient, but that wasn’t my experience.

My mother demanded things. She expected that I’d act a certain way. I’d have good posture and laugh at bad jokes. I’d know when to speak, when to keep still, and when to disappear into the background like a good little woman.

It was expected that I’d behave.

Which was why getting pregnant was the worst thing I could do.

My mother would never understand, I realized in a flash. She’d never, ever understand.

A noise toward the hall caught my attention. Marcia stood with that smile plastered on her face. I was so used to that smile—it was polite and unassuming and trying so hard to be harmless in order to avoid my mother’s wrath, and it never worked.

“Yes, Marcia?” my mother snapped.

“Mr. Stuart here for Ash,” Marcia said apologetically, as if it were her fault.

I glanced at my mother wildly, but she only waved a hand at me. “Go entertain him, darling,” she said. “You can use the den, if you’d like.”

I snapped my mouth shut. I could use the den, like I was some teenager. I was tempted to spit my pregnancy out into her face but followed Marcia instead.

Stuart stood in the hallway near the front door and beamed as I approached. I felt my skin crawl.