The Enigma (Unlawful Men)

“I didn’t take the pill for protection. I took it to stabilize my periods. I only missed one,” she whispers. “And I’m not due until tomorrow, but since the doctor mentioned it, it’s all I can think of.”

“Fuck me,” I breathe, lowering to my arse and moving in close to her, my knees bent and framing her curled up body. “Look at me.” I take her chin and pull her face from its hiding place. Tears are bursting from her eyes, and it’s the most painful thing I’ve seen. “It’ll be okay.”

She chokes on a sob. Or was it a laugh? “You’re a murderer.”

It was a laugh. And, yes, okay, it’s quite fucking laughable. If it wasn’t so fucking tragic. “Not by nature,” I say, and then frown at myself. Am I going to just keep saying stupid shit? “I mean it’s not something I want to do.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because there was nothing else but that need.”

“And now?”

“Now there’s you.” I reach blindly for the vanity unit and pull down the test, holding it between us. She looks at it. “And maybe someone else,” I add.

Her shoulders jerk, her eyes round and surprised. But not happy. Not relieved. “I’m not mother material.” She hiccups over each word, and it shocks me that I feel hurt by that statement. And annoyed. “I can’t do it.” She’s suddenly up, standing over me.

“Do what, Beau?” I stand too, making sure she can’t get past me.

She points at the test in my hand, and I take the tops of her arms, moving her to the toilet and sitting her down on the lid. I crouch, holding the test up. She’s looking at it like it could be her end. “You don’t have a choice this time, Beau. No running.” I take her hand and put the test in her grasp, squeezing her fist around it. “I can stay, or I can wait outside. What’s it to be?” I know what I want to do, but what I want has to take a back seat for the time being.

“Stay. No, go. Stay.” She growls and stands, nearly knocking me back to my arse. “Go,” she says, resolute. “I need to be on my own.”

I don’t like it, but I give her what she thinks she wants and leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I turn around and find her on the other side, the now clear glass not giving her the privacy she’s requested. She shows the ceiling her palms, and I reluctantly switch this pane of glass, and this one only, back to frosted. The lock engages, telling me she’ll only let me back in when she’s ready. It doesn’t matter that one shoulder barge could put me back in the bathroom. Or that with another press of a button, I would be able to see her. I’ll give her space.

I start to pace outside the door, walking in circles for what feels like forever, intermittently checking the security cameras while my head tangles more with every circuit.

Ten minutes pass, and there’s not been one sound from beyond the door. Nothing. How long do these things take? I lift my fist to knock but withdraw again when movement on one of the cameras catches my eye. I tap on the screen, bringing up that one camera’s live footage. My blood runs cold. “Fuck,” I hiss quietly, looking at the bathroom door, torn between speaking up or not. But I know Beau, and if I tell her to keep the door locked and stay put, she’ll do the exact opposite. So I mentally beg her to stay in the bathroom for another few minutes. Just a few minutes.

Because that’s all I need.

I haven’t got time to arm myself fully. Or even fucking dress myself. I take the stairs silently, three at a time, and sprint to the kitchen, pulling open a cupboard and feeling around the back of some books. I pull out the Heckler, grab the biggest kitchen knife I have, and head for the lift. I look down at the screen of my phone as I go, wondering how the fuck they got past Otto and Goldie. Where the fuck are they?

I pull up the rest of the cameras and scan them all. Nothing, except for the fucker in the stairwell. I board the elevator and smack the button for the next floor down.

And as the cart starts moving, something sounds above me.

I look up to the ceiling.

“You fucker,” I growl.

57

BEAU

My eyes won’t move from the white stick. My mind won’t stop praying for one line. It feels like I’ve been standing here for years, waiting and praying. He’s outside the door. Close but giving me space. I can feel him there. Tense. Stressed.

He has nothing on me.

I’m staring at the test on the back of the toilet so hard, my eyes are burning. One line. Please, just one line. One little li—