Page 19

Know what is a sure thing?

Killing him is a big payout. You could get away this time. Go undercover, deep undercover, out of the country even. Then, back to waitressing, living in cash-only rooms, taking money under the table, no taxes, no IDs, nothing traceable... You might be able to get a place.

With money you earn for killing someone who’s supposed to be evil... but turned out good?

Worked at being good.

My stomach churns, and it’s not the lingering scent of par-boiled yams.

He helped you. That’s another sure thing. You being here, alive? That’s proof. You can’t be the person who hurts those who help you. Killing bad people is one thing; killing good people—okay, good monsters—is another.

If you were going to disappear... Maybe this is the place to do it?

Maybe.

I close my eyes again.

Sleep is easier than thinking, and the fact that I’m only feeling safe and peaceful enough to rest and turn my brain off because of Lazarus isn’t lost on me.

MY OFFERING LOOKS LIKE shit compared to the others on the long side board draped in white linens and dotted with festive fall decor.

Manny and Rhea arrive, and Gloria White-Crieghton, the ghostess with the mostess hostess, makes a little cry of, “Oh, Jiminy, no!” and floats my yams into the kitchen to be given a makeover.

“I’m so sorry about the oven,” I cry as soon as Rhea races to me and throws her arms around me. “And the squash. The paper towels—”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s okay! The oven is just an oven. You didn’t get hurt?” She checks me all over with big, worried eyes, patting me down like she can find a wound in this scarred-up sack I’m in.

“I’m fine.”

Manny pats me on the back and looks around. “Where’s the girl? Still at the apartment above the shop?”

“I hope. She was in rough shape, but she didn’t want to go to the hospital.”

“I can understand that.” Manny nods. He’s always so sympathetic. So understanding.

The kind of dad a kid should have.

“Enough about that. I can pay for a new oven if I have to, and the girl didn’t seem to have any broken bones. Tell me about the baby? Did you sign anything? Is it all sewn up?” Bad pun. Not intended.

Rhea squeals and digs into her purse.

She’s still carrying her purse. Still in her coat. She didn’t even take that off before coming over to see me—Fuck, I’m still in my collar and an open, stained Hawaiian shirt, like some undead model hoping to make it onto a tropical beach calendar.

Because she loves you like a son, idiot.

Right until she gets a taste of the real thing.

“Here. This is the twenty-week ultrasound. She’s measuring small. They think it’s a girl, but she was rolled up tight. See? Here are the feet. The head.”

“I think it’s a girl,” Manny murmurs reverently, looking at the picture. “She let us take this photo with us. Such a sweet girl, but not ready to be a mom, not even sure she ever wants to be a mother.”

“But holding the baby could change all that,” Rhea says, a brave smile on her face, grim acceptance in her voice.

“Twenty weeks? How long does it take to make one of these things?” I ask, even though my brain is shouting “nine months!” from some unknown store of knowledge, or maybe just from living in Pine Ridge for a while, hearing normal people talk about normal lives, not just drugs, death, and demons.

“Forty weeks is how they calculate it, but that’s counting the beginning of the month when the baby is conceived. She’s twenty-two weeks, which is... which is very good,” Rhea chokes out. “She could survive now, with lots of help.”

“And huge medical bills, round-the-clock care,” Manny nods. “That’s something this birthmother isn’t prepared to deal with, either. No shame in that. Who is? I’m just glad there are so many couples willing to step in and help, and that she’s willing to offer us this precious gift. She could have picked someone else.”