"Rest," he says. "I have meetings this morning, but I'll be back by evening."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with my secrets and my churning stomach and the terrible, terrifying possibility that I can no longer ignore.
***
I wait until I hear his car pull away before I get out of bed.
The nausea has subsided to a dull queasiness, manageable if I move slowly and don't think too hard about food. I shower, dress, apply makeup to hide the pallor that's become my constant companion. The woman in the mirror looks almost normal—tired, maybe, but functional.
She doesn't look like someone whose entire life is about to change.
I find James in the kitchen, as always. He rises when I enter, setting aside his coffee with the smooth efficiency of someone accustomed to waiting.
"The city, miss?"
"Yes. I'm meeting a friend for lunch at Café Roma."
"Of course. I'll bring the car around."
The drive feels longer than usual. I stare out the window at the passing scenery, my hand resting unconsciously on my stomach. There's nothing to feel—it's far too early for that—but the gesture has become automatic, a physical acknowledgment of the possibility I've been trying to ignore.
I could be wrong. The nausea could be stress, the fatigue could be exhaustion, the missed period could be... something else. Bodies do strange things under pressure, and God knows I've been under pressure.
But I don't think I'm wrong.
I think I know exactly what's happening inside me.
The question is what to do about it.
Café Roma is a small Italian place in a neighborhood I used to frequent, back when my life was normal. Bea is already there when I arrive, seated at a corner table with a glass of wine and an expression that falls somewhere between worried and annoyed.
"Finally," she says as I slide into the seat across from her. "I was starting to think you'd been abducted by aliens."
"Sorry. I've been—"
"Busy. I know. You're always busy now." She pushes the wine list toward me. "Drink. You look like you need it."
I glance at the list and feel my stomach turn. "Actually, I think I'll just have water."
Bea's eyebrows rise. "Water? Since when do you turn down wine?"
"Since I've been feeling off. Probably a stomach bug or something."
"Mm-hmm." She studies me with the sharp eyes of someone who's known me for ten years. "A stomach bug. Is that what we're calling it?"
"Calling what?"
"Whatever's going on with you." She leans forward, lowering her voice. "Poppy, I'm not an idiot. You've been dodging my calls for weeks. You look like you haven't slept in a month. And now you're turning down wine because of a 'stomach bug.'" She makes air quotes with her fingers. "Talk to me. Please."
I want to. God, I want to. I want to tell her everything—the murder, the stalking, the contract, the man who's consumed my entire existence. I want to tell her about the card hidden in my nightstand, the secret meetings, and the terrible truth I learned about my father.
But I can't. I can't drag her into this world, can't make her complicit in my choices, can't put her in danger by making her a keeper of secrets that could get her killed.
So I do what I've been doing for weeks: I lie.
"I'm fine," I say. "Really. The new job is just demanding, that's all. Big clients, high expectations. You know how it is."
"No," Bea says quietly. "I don't know how it is. Because you won't tell me."
