11

You think things can’t get worse, and then they do.

The same day that Connor called to tell me we’d been photographed naked, I was driving to work at the restaurant when I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed an ominous-looking SUV tailing me. It was a black Chevy Suburban with windows tinted so dark that I couldn’t see the driver, following closely enough to rear-end me if I braked hard. I sped up. The driver sped up, too, and stayed behind me all the way to the restaurant, a solid fifteen minutes that included getting on and off the highway and making three separate turns. Each time he followed me through an intersection, I felt a sick jolt of fear. When I turned in to the restaurant parking lot, the Suburban slowed down momentarily to get a better look before speeding away.

Shaking, bathed in sweat, I wondered—who would do that? Derek? From what I knew, unless he was dealing again, he couldn’t afford a brand-new, tricked-out Suburban like that one. And if Derek went to the trouble of stalking me, he wouldn’t hide behind tinted windows. He’d get up in my face, so I knew it was him. Could it’ve been the same person who’d followed me and Connor to the ski house and photographed us sleeping? But why would they bother with me? I was a struggling waitress with a thin wallet, not worth blackmailing. The incident made no sense. I tried to calm down, to tell myself that I was overreacting. Some jerk just tailgated me, and that’s all it was. Trying my best to believe that, I went to work.

The Baldwin Grill closed at ten on weeknights. At the end of the shift, as I walked to my car, the northern sky glowed with a delicate light, and a balmy breeze washed over me. The beauty of the night made me long for Connor. Who was with his wife, on a yacht, in the Mediterranean. What a fool I was.

Thoughts of him distracted me as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home. As I merged onto the highway, I looked up and saw that Suburban on my tail again. The shock made me swerve into the next lane, which caused the driver coming up beside me to lean on his horn. I jerked my car back into place and stepped on the gas, surging ahead. When the Suburban kept pace, I broke into a cold sweat. Twice in one day? This was no coincidence. That SUV was definitely following me. I looked for a license plate number, but there was no front plate. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t see in through the dark tints. Who was behind the wheel, and what the hell did he want?

If I continued on to my apartment, he’d see where I lived.

I couldn’t go home.

Shit.

It was dark by now. There weren’t many cars on the road. Most businesses were closed. I drove past my usual exit, hands tight on the wheel, with no idea what to do. I let a second exit go by, then a third. I was well past my town now, flying along at seventy-five, heading nowhere, with the Suburban right behind me. The gas light blinked on. Shit. A sign said NEXT SERVICES 17 MILES. Okay, if I could make it that far with what was left in the tank, I’d at least be in a populated area. There was a big commercial strip with a Home Depot, a Walmart, a Pier 1. The stores would be closed by now. But there were service stations and fast-food joints. Something would be open, people would be around—if only I could make it there before I ran out of gas.

The next fifteen minutes felt like fifteen years. I white-knuckled it in my old Corolla, the Suburban lurking like some horror-movie creature behind me, until finally I glimpsed the exit in the distance, coming up fast. This was my chance to lose him. I was no stunt driver, but I’d have to pull a fast move if I wanted to get home tonight. Holding my breath, I pushed the pedal to the floor and barreled straight ahead, jerking the wheel at the last second and swerving sideways across the solid line onto the off-ramp. My car fishtailed, tires squealing, as an acrid smell filled the passenger compartment. But the Suburban shot past, missing the turn.

I’d lost him, for now.

As much as I wanted to disappear to some back road where he wouldn’t find me, I needed gas ASAP. I pulled into a Sunoco station just past the exit ramp. I started the gas going, then reached into the glove compartment for the flyer where Derek had scrawled his phone number. He was the most logical suspect, and I refused to live in fear of my ex-con ex-husband. I’d call him up and confront him. The gas station was brightly lit. It had a convenience store with customers inside. I felt safe here for the moment—safe enough to demand answers.

The phone rang for a long time before he picked up.

“Who’s this?” he muttered.

From the thickness of his voice, it sounded like I’d woken him. He couldn’t be asleep at home and following me in a giant SUV at the same time. Unless he was pretending.

“It’s Tabitha. Are you following me?”

“What?”

“Are you following my car, in a black Chevy Suburban?”

“Hah, right. You wish.”

“So, you’re not?”

“Why would I follow you?”

“Why did you jump me the other night? I can’t explain how your brain works. I’m telling you right now, Derek, if it’s you, I’m calling your parole officer.”

“I didn’t jump you. I wanted to talk, and you made a scene. And I’m not following you, okay? I don’t own a Chevy Suburban. I don’t even have a friggin’ driver’s license right now. They suspended it.”

As plausible as that sounded, I didn’t really believe him. How did he get to the restaurant the other night if he couldn’t drive?

“Don’t come near me, or we’ll have a problem,” I said.

He was in the middle of an angry reply when I dropped the call. He dialed right back. I hit Decline.

Derek was probably lying. I hoped he was lying, because if it wasn’t him in the Suburban, then a stranger had followed me. And that would be a first. I had no enemies. I wasn’t important. I didn’t have enough cash to make it worth blackmailing me or shaking me down. Although. I was involved with a man who did. A married man. With a powerful, unstable wife.

Could that be some goon in the Suburban, hired by Nina Levitt?

A woman with white hair pulled up in a Volvo and got out to pump gas. Her golden retriever poked his head out the back window, tongue lolling. Oh, to be her, with a sweet dog, a normal life. To be anyone but me right now.

Enough. The Suburban hadn’t found me yet. Better get the hell out of here before it came back.

At home, I double-locked the door, pulled the blinds, and turned down the lights. I had to talk to Connor—to tell him about being followed and ask if he had any news about the blackmailer. But he’d said not to call. Crap. I didn’t know what to do. I started pacing. I was feeling sick. And strange, like my breasts hurt. Actually, they hurt a lot, come to think of it. With every step, the pressure of the bra made them ache. Maybe my period was coming.

Wait a minute, when did I last have it?

Crap. I was late.

I sank down onto the sofa and tried to remember the precautions we’d taken. I wasn’t on the pill. I had sex so rarely that it didn’t seem worth putting those hormones in my body on the off chance. Connor’d had condoms. We’d used them. But we’d had sex a lot, and maybe—

Shit.

Okay, calm down. Stress could make you late, right? Lord knows, between Derek coming after me, the Suburban following me, and the crazy emotions caused by my affair with Connor, I was under enormous pressure. That could explain it.

Or else I was pregnant.

Nausea overwhelmed me. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. That could only mean one thing. I needed to take a pregnancy test to be sure. It was after midnight, and the only open pharmacy was a fifteen-minute drive over dark, empty roads. I hadn’t seen the Suburban since my stunt-driving maneuver on the highway an hour earlier. But it could still be out there. I hesitated, rinsing my mouth. When the cardboardy taste of the water in the Dixie cup made me gag, I knew this was urgent, and grabbed my keys. All the way to the pharmacy, I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, relieved when the hulking black SUV failed to materialize.

Back in my bathroom, I ripped open a foil packet, sat down on the toilet, and peed on the stick. One line in the window meant you weren’t pregnant.

Two lines.

I did the second test in the box, hoping against hope. Two lines again.

Fuck.

I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, dry-eyed. For the first time in my life, I was pregnant. That should bring me joy. Instead, I was terrified. I knew my options just like every woman did. But from the second I saw the two lines, I knew I wanted this baby.

His baby. I wanted to have a baby with Connor.

What if he’d lied? What if he had no intention of leaving his wife—and her millions?

Then I’d have to raise this child alone.

I knew what it was like to live through an unstable childhood, with absent parents. I wanted the baby, but not with upheaval, and insecurity, and lack of resources. I wanted this baby to have two parents, and a good home. I wanted it with Connor by my side.

He’d told me not to call.

Screw that.

I dialed his phone. It went straight to voicemail. I left a message saying I needed to speak to him right away, that it was extremely urgent. Then I waited. An hour passed with no word from him. Where did he say he was, again? I Googled the time zones of the Mediterranean. It was two here now, which meant it was eight there. Eight A.M. He could goddamn well answer. Another hour passed. Nothing. I made some herbal tea to settle my stomach, but the flowery smell of it just made me throw up again. There was nothing left in my stomach, and no word from Connor. I texted him—Please please please call, emergency.

Morning came, and I was late for work. I stared at the computer screen at the insurance company, billing codes blurring before my eyes as I struggled to concentrate. Dizzy with hunger, yet constantly nauseous, I managed to choke down a few saltine crackers. At the restaurant, working the dinner shift, the intense food smells made me gag. I was running to the bathroom so often that Liz eventually came looking for me. She found me standing at the sink, pale and wan, wiping my lips with a paper towel. After looking under the doors of the stalls to make sure we were alone, she demanded to know what was going on.

“Are you sick?” she said, sniffing the air.

“I might be coming down with a stomach bug.”

Liz knew better. She’d borne four children, after all. She frowned at me skeptically. I couldn’t meet her eyes. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone—except this baby’s father, who refused to return my calls.

“Go home,” she said.

I didn’t protest.

The road from Lakeside, where the restaurant was located, to my apartment in Baldwin had been widened in the years since I’d traveled it by bike. Still just two lanes with strips of grass and then woods on either side, it was now spacious and smooth, with a forty-mile-an-hour speed limit instead of twenty-five. It was around six, still full light outside on this pretty summer evening. I was driving on autopilot, caught up in my problems and ignoring the rearview mirror, when the Suburban suddenly emerged from my blind spot, hurtling at me like a demon. I braked to let the SUV pass faster. Instead of passing me, it slowed and veered toward me. He was going to run me off the road. I floored the Toyota, managing to slip out of the way a split second before the SUV sideswiped me.

Now he was behind me. In what felt like slow-motion, I pressed the pedal to the floor, my eyes on the mirror. My poor old Toyota was not up to the task of outrunning the Suburban. Stunned, I stayed on the gas as he rammed me from behind. Metal was grinding, sparks flying. I leaned on the horn, screaming uselessly at him.

“Stop! Stop it! Asshole!”

Cars came at us from the opposite direction, and the Suburban fell back. But the minute they’d passed, he was on me again. I heard the low roar as the SUV came up beside me, its dark bulk looming until it filled the driver’s-side window. I strained to see my aggressor’s face, but the tints were too dark. Who would do this? Holding the wheel steady, I refused to cede the road. But my Toyota was no match for that behemoth. The SUV sideswiped me once, with a screech of metal. Then it hit me again, and the second impact sent me hurtling onto the grassy shoulder. Bouncing forward, bones rattling, I fought to keep control of the car, finally managing to skid to a stop just short of the tree line. The airbag didn’t deploy, thank God. Hyperventilating, I stumbled out onto the grass, my legs like rubber. The driver’s-side door was crumpled and scratched.

A woman in a minivan had pulled off the road behind me. I could see kids in her car. She came toward me now, waving.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Did you see that? Did you see what he did to me?”

“He ran you off the road. Do you need me call an ambulance?”

She had a phone in her hand.

“No. I’m not hurt.”

“The cops, then?”

I leaned over, hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath, and nodded.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“It was a black SUV, right?” she asked.

“Yeah, a Suburban.”

“With New York plates?”

“New York plates? Really? I didn’t see.”

“Orange and blue. That’s New York, right?” she said.

“Yes.”

New York plates. It couldn’t be Derek, then. Deep down, I’d known that. Derek wanted me back. Not dead. Who else could it be? The obvious answer was someone who worked for Nina Levitt. Was Connor’s wife trying to kill me? I couldn’t believe that. Correction—I didn’t like believing it. I hated that I’d done something bad enough to cause another person to want to kill me. But I had. I’d slept with her husband.

The police showed up and took a report. The woman in the minivan hadn’t gotten a plate number, and the Suburban was long gone. The officer asked if I thought it had been a random act of road rage. Did anybody have a grudge against me? I almost told. I almost said, Actually, the unstable woman who is married to the father of my unborn child has the means and the motive to hire someone to kill me. It had to be her. But I didn’t say that. Even thinking it, it sounded far-fetched. Instead, I mentioned Derek’s name, while telling the officer I didn’t believe it was him, because of the New York plates.

Once I was safe at home, I tried Connor’s number. I had so much to tell him—things he needed to know. I was expecting his child. I was being followed. Someone had tried to kill me—possibly the same person who’d taken the photo of us, who, in all likelihood, worked for his wife. Yet, each time I called, the phone rang only once before rolling over to voicemail. I tried texting instead, but the texts showed as undelivered.

It was almost like he’d blocked me. But that couldn’t be true. More likely, Nina was interfering with our calls. I wouldn’t put it past her to tamper with his phone so that my number was blocked, and he didn’t even know. There was only one way to get around that.

I had to drive down to New York and speak to him in person.