Falling for the Killer

“How are you, Ash?” he asked. “You’re looking lovely.”

That wasn’t true. “What do you need?” I asked him, ready to throw him out as soon as possible.

“I was hoping we’d talk,” he said, glancing at his phone. “I set aside a half hour, if you’d be willing.”

“About what?” I was intensely aware of Marcia hovering nearby. She hadn’t been dismissed yet. I kept her around, just in case.

“About our future together,” Stuart said, glancing at me with a frown. “What else? Come on, let’s go talk.”

I let out a sharp breath. I was annoyed but I wasn’t going to get rid of Stuart anytime soon. Making a scene would only piss my mom off, and I didn’t need to make things worse with her before dropping my pregnancy news.

“This way,” I said to Stuart, then to Marcia, “Thank you.”

Marcia quickly walked off. I led Stuart down a short hall and to the first door on the left. The den was the most informal room in the house, and yet it still felt like some stuffy old grandmother’s china closet. Everything was done up in leather and bows and gold with some of the tackiest paintings and statues in the whole house. At least there was a TV, an enormous flatscreen in the middle of a bookcase jampacked with trinkets and leather-bound volumes.

Stuart looked around, making a face, then looked back at his phone as he talked. “I had a chat with my father this morning,” he said. “We can use my family’s house in Martha’s Vineyard for the wedding. My mother says she knows a woman that makes dresses, so I suppose you’ll go to her, and I’ll get my father’s friend to provide catering, and—”

“Stop,” I said, still standing near the door. My heart was racing and I thought I might get sick.

He looked up, frowning. “What? You don’t like Martha’s Vineyard? It’s a little tacky, I suppose. We can go somewhere else if you’ve got a better idea, but the dress is a nonstarter.”

“Stuart,” I said. “I haven’t spoken to you in two weeks and now you’re here talking about a wedding.”

His eyebrows knit down. “Yes, and what? I know you haven’t gotten used to the idea yet, but we’re getting married, ducky. Better start planning.”

I shook my head and my hair flipped wildly around my face and shoulders. “I’m not planning anything with you,” I said.

His eyes went dark then. I knew that look, and I took one step back.

I heard the doorbell in the distance.

“I’m growing tired of this game,” he said, coming toward me. The phone went back into his pocket and I had his undivided attention.

I wished he’d take it back out.

“I’m not playing,” I said. “I’m tired, Stuart. I’ve had a really bad day and I just got some bad news, and I’m not in the mood to do this with you.”

“We’re getting married,” he said. “Our fathers already agreed. Your mother wants this. My mother thinks it’s acceptable. It’s going to happen, and I don’t care if you hate me. You’ll give me children, you’ll raise them, and you’ll have a good life. Our families will blossom.” He stopped right in front of me, his eyes glaring into mine, and a horrible grin sliced across his lips. “Maybe we’ll grow to like each other, given time.”

I reached out and pushed him. I don’t know why I did it. I couldn’t stand how close he was or that vision of my future. I couldn’t take the way he spoke or the way he looked like he wanted to rip off my head and would probably enjoy it. The horror of having his children, of marrying him, sat thick on my shoulders.

He barely took a step back, but he retaliated in kind. He shoved me hard and I slammed into the door behind me with a gasp. The air was knocked from my lungs.

“You little bitch,” he said. “What’s the matter with you? I’m trying to be nice.”

“Stop,” I said as he came at me. Fear spiked as my hand went to my belly, and terror made me blurt it out, terror that he’d hurt the baby. “I’m pregnant.”

It made him pause. He didn’t move, like his arms were frozen solid, like his skin turned to stone. He tilted his head to one side and I wanted to cry, but wouldn’t let myself.

“You’re pregnant?” he asked softly. “I know it isn’t mine.”

“I’m pregnant,” I said. “It has nothing to do with you, okay? But please, leave me alone, I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Who?” he asked, coming closer. “Who’s the father?”

I shook my head. “You don’t know him.”

“Tell me,” he said. “Ash—”

“No,” I said and turned, grabbing at the doorknob. I tried to pull it open but he stopped me, wrenching my wrists away. I let out a gasp and kneed him hard in the thigh, missing his crotch by inches. He grunted and shoved me harder against the wall. My head bounced off the doorframe and I saw stars, then he wrenched my wrist behind my back.