Chapter 23
I wake in the morning, but I don’t want to get out of bed.
There’s no denying the workload and baby combined are taking it out of me. I’m an industrious person, never have had a problem working overtime, but right now, I have to admit, I could use a day in bed.
Anton is already awake, and I have a feeling this might be a feature of our life together. I know he doesn’t need much sleep and he told me he wakes up naturally at five. Sometimes before.
By the time I’m dressed, the scent of strong coffee is already drifting up from the kitchen.
I look in my full-length bedroom mirror, and for a moment, I feel insanely unsexy.
It’s official. I’ve outgrown regular clothes, even oversized ones.
I had to swap out of a larger-sized man’s shirt for an actual pregnancy uniform shirt. I can’t tuck it in because it’s designed to hang down to about mid-booty. Granted, it’s not a bad fit, not a tent or anything, but I’ve always felt like my butt is my best feature; this shirt does not agree.
So this shirt, perfectly fine in theory, is doing unexpected things to my curves, and I’m still deciding how I feel about that.
Why do I care what I look like at work?
Because today, my ride-along buddy is Adonis himself.
I’m heading out to Mount Hamilton, and when Anton offered to drive us in his truck, I took him up on it.
I’m a relatively energetic person, but last night, pulling a late one and after all the emotion, sex and tension, I’m whacked today.
It’s only about an hour to the Tarmigans’ house—Andy lives with his parents—but not having to focus on the road and driving will give me a break.
I swipe on some natural mocha lipstick. Not for work. For morale.
Will the Tarmigans take a pregnant cop seriously?
And then, I think of my mom’s tailored suits and her red lips. For a minute, I wonder if my mom puts on lipstick at work for herself or for everyone else?
I pad down the stairs in my socks and find Anton in the kitchen, moving like it’s mission day, prepping sandwiches with the kind of precision that belongs in a five-star deli.
He glances over his shoulder. “Turkey and provolone, hot honey mustard. And arugula.” He cocks an eyebrow. “We have to eat our veggies now.”
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed over my chest. “Aw. Do I have to?” I laugh. “I’m in the mood for just the cheese. Preferably melted.”
“Sorry, Mama, fondue isn’t the best packed lunch.” He brushes crumbs off his hands. “I’ll make you pizza later if you’re good.”
A wave of emotion washes over me, and I touch my stomach. This baby is so lucky. I’m so lucky.
He works feverishly, washing berries in a colander, then dumping them into a bowl. He adds a dollop of organic yogurt and sprinkles on a granola that looks more like dessert than breakfast. He pushes it across the breakfast bar to an empty seat. “No time for a greasy spoon today.”
As if that’s what I’d call Anton’s breakfasts.
“Thank you…” I sit and watch him finish rushing around the kitchen, filling Thermoses with tea, coffee. Packing a cooler.
And I wonder…has anyone ever looked after him? Did his ex-wife do nice things and make him feel important and worship his body with fruit and granola?
I’m filled with thoughts of what I could do for him sometime. Just to be nice. Just to show him he’s valued and appreciated.
Anton finishes packing the cooler and closes it. “Love the new shirt.”
I let my spoon clink in the bowl. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not. I like you showing.”
The words hit like sunlight.
But it doesn’t erase the feeling I had earlier about being taken seriously at the interview today.
“It’s going to be weird questioning civilians with a bump. It makes me feel really…different.”
He eyes me. “You’re worried they won’t respect you?”
“Yeah. Maybe they’ll think I’m…fragile?”
Have I ever thought a pregnant woman looked fragile? Not once.
But a pregnant cop somehow feels…different, and I hate that it does.
Anton reassures me. “I’m not sure how anyone could think a woman willing to give up her body to grow another and, let’s be honest, to brave birth, would be seen as anything less than a goddamn heroine of her own comic book.”
A genuine laugh leaves my lips. “Yeah, I’m shocked Stan Lee missed that opportunity.”
The image flashes bright and ridiculous in my mind—the dramatic front cover, a masked woman with an unmistakable bump—and I start giggling at my own joke. “Superbump.”
Anton’s laugh is instant and sharp. “Superbump…” he repeats, already losing it. “And her sidekick—Bump-ble Bee…”
That does me in. My body rolls with laughter as I gasp, “You did not just say Bump-ble Bee…” The giggles pour out of me, uncontrollable now, until a tear escapes, and I swipe it away with my finger. “Stop…” I manage, trying to breathe. “That’s too much.”
Anton is still beaming. “Hey. People have bought into it. Sorry to say you wouldn’t be the first pregnant superhero.”
I take a drink of apple ginger juice. “Really?”
“Spider Woman was pregnant once,” he says, washing up a bowl he used.
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious. My brother was obsessed with comics and loved her. Thought she was the ultimate badass.”
I tilt my head. “She does have it all going on, I guess. Saving the world while growing one.”
Anton nods, smiling, and turns back to washing dishes.
I contemplate his body language now that he’s mentioned his brother. Anton doesn’t talk about his family much. I know his brother is the only one left. “Do you ever think about talking to your brother again?”
“’Course. More now that the little one’s on the way.”
His voice is casual, but there’s a weight to it.
I’m an only child, and we don’t live near everyone, but when the Johnsons gather, it’s loud; my mom’s one of six.
When we reunite, cousins pack into backyard parties, aunties claim babies like prizes.
In my family, there are more arms than any one baby knows what to do with.
I could hand this kid off and not see them for six months straight.
I bet a few of the women would want me to pass Anton around, too.
I don’t say anything more, but his expression stays with me all the way to the truck.
He would love to find his brother. He’s tried. I can’t imagine being held against my will, reported missing, and eventually, having my only living family member believe I was dead. Because I’m sure Alex Easton would have assumed that at one point while Anton was in captivity.
Alex is out there somewhere, in the Brazilian jungle, thinking he’s alone in this world, too. It’s sad because he not only has a brother who cares about him, but he’s about to be an uncle.
We settle into the truck, and Anton blasts the heat, already warm because he started the engine before we got here. He’s so damn thoughtful.
For the first time, my big family feels like not only a godsend for the baby, but it’s something Anton could belong to, too.
And I want him to. Last night felt right.
But wanting something and defending it are two different things.
My mother wouldn’t outright object to Anton and me being together. She’d cross-examine. Every concern about us would be framed as care, and every question an invitation to explain myself—until I’m standing there, defending a choice that has no evidence to support it except that it feels right.
My mom is practical. She believes in proof, in foresight, in decisions that can survive scrutiny. She didn’t hesitate to cut my father loose when the facts were ugly and the trust was gone. Feelings didn’t factor into it then, and they won’t now.
This choice doesn’t fit neatly into her framework.
And Faith Johnson has a way of making people second-guess decisions they were sure of five minutes earlier.
I don’t know yet whether what feels right will survive once it’s put on the stand.
The drive to Mount Hamilton isn’t long, and we ride in silence for at least twenty minutes, listening to a talk radio show with a surprisingly compelling interview about the Galapagos Islands.
I welcome the buffer—it gives me time to shake off domesticity and slip back into cop mode.
When the show finishes, Anton presses a button on his steering wheel. “Hey, Siri, play Cat Burns.”
Music fills the cab. It’s a soft, alto voice, soothing but very cool at the same time.
“This doesn’t sound like your usual British indie rock,” I tease.
“Well she is a Brit.” He smirks. “I thought Cat was a happy medium for us.”
It’s such a small thing, picking a playlist. But it says something about him wanting to always meet me halfway.
I tip my head toward him. “I actually like your British stuff, you know.”
His eyes flick to mine, dark and amused. “You get riled up, do you?”
I sip my coffee like it didn’t just make me think of his tight buns last night. “Sometimes.”
He grins, then thumbs the volume down just a notch. “Have you heard her music before?”
“I only heard one of her songs…” But I’m liking what I hear.
He glances sideways at me. “I like the name Cat,” he says.
My heart glows thinking about our baby. Together.
“We’ve never talked baby names… Or if at the scan we’re finding out the gender?”
He taps the steering wheel with his index finger. To the beat: “Waiting for the baby is hard enough. Unknowns aren’t my strength. The more I can get my hands around, the better.”
“I’m glad you said that because I absolutely want to know. We might have to pretend we don’t know, though, and let Lara do a gender reveal party.”
He laughs roughly. “I’m good at going undercover.”
My smile comes from deep inside. “Good…” I say, but when I look out the window at the passing landscape, I realize there are more unknowns to clarify than just the gender.
This scan isn’t about knowing if our baby is pink or blue; it’s a screening tool.
“Anton…” I hesitate even though I know we have to talk about it before the scan.
“Mmm…”
I struggle for words. “What if our baby isn’t…you know…”
“A hundred percent healthy?” he finishes my thought, and I’m so glad he’s been thinking about it, too.
He continues. “I guess for me, this baby is a gift,” he puts it simply. “And I won’t waste it.”
His answer lands deep. And again, it’s the one I was hoping for.
I think about my own body—about all the ways I’ve been given a second chance at health. About Lara. About how the people I love don’t fit clean definitions of health, but I’ve never once wished them away.
“Yeah,” I say, grounded in the way his certainty anchors me. “I’m with you.”
But the pause he gives feels like there’s more coming.
“But…”
There it is…
“If you were at risk, though, honey…” He stares at the road, jaw tight. “We’d have to talk about this again.”
That he puts me first lands like a blade straight to the chest.
Sometimes, when my mind plays devil’s advocate, I tell myself Anton is steady and supportive, not because of me but because I’m carrying his child. A role. A responsibility.
This shatters that lie completely.
And the truth of it makes my throat go tight and my face warm in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with being seen. But I can’t unpack that right now, so I change the subject.
“Back to names. Cat is unfortunately out since we know one. But I’ve always liked old-fashioned names. Like Mabel.”
“Mabel?” He sounds unconvinced.
“Isn’t there a British singer called Mabel?”
The way his face contorts tells me he’s not sold.
“Guess Mabel is a no…”
“It could grow on me,” he says, then immediately backtracks. “Or not. I mean, we could just take old lady names to the next level and call her Agnes.”
I slap his arm with a laugh. “What do you like then?”
He thinks for a beat but I know the name isn’t off the cuff.
“Gabrielle?”
That’s a beautiful name. I turn it over in my mind. Gabrielle Johnson…or—wait—Easton?
Crap. What was a cute, necessary conversation has suddenly tipped into something heavier. “Yeah. That’s pretty,” I say.
But leave it there.
I turn toward the window, pretending to focus on the honeyed voice of Miss Burns on the speakers. It doesn’t help. My thoughts spiral anyway. Will Anton want the baby to have his last name? How does that even work?
I can already hear my mom insisting the baby should be a Johnson. She changed both our names back after the divorce. I’m not sure how she got my dad’s consent—she’s a lawyer and knows the system—but maybe he just didn’t care.
It’s not like he ever tried to claim me as his. Not really.
His hand finds mine across the console—big, warm, grounding. “You okay?”
I need to get my feet back under me—enough of the future for one car ride. “Just thinking about my questions for the meeting,” I fib.
I flip open the folder and focus on the questions I’ve lined up for the Tarmigans. Basic ones. Necessary ones. Was Andy driving the car the night Ingram pulled him over? Where was he the day of Zoe’s accident? What exactly was his relationship to her? Alibis. Timelines.
Anton interrupts my train of thought. “Do you want a piece of advice on this one?”
I do. I actually do. Not only because this is officially my first time questioning a potential suspect, but because I don’t think I’ve ever not followed Anton’s advice. “Shoot.”
“This family, and Andy, have been through a lot of accusations in the past. They’re going to be on edge. On guard. If you go in asking for alibis at the start, it will have them on the back foot.”
I hate to admit all my questions were doing exactly that. “So what would you do?”
“Play good cop.” He puts on the turn signal to move off the highway, and it ticks in the background. “Give them the impression Andy’s name has come up, and given what the family’s been through, you want to offer them a chance to get it off the table before it brings them a headache.”
“Presume innocence.”
“That’s what ‘good cops’ do.”
The more I turn Anton’s idea over in my mind, the more convinced I am that he’s right. As usual, he’s an incredible teacher, and I’m a very willing student.
My thoughts drift back to last night, and heat curls low in my stomach. God. There are probably a million more things this man could teach me.
The thought flashes and dies when the SatNav announces we’ve arrived. I slide my hands over my bump and tuck everything away, aware that lessons don’t stay theoretical for long.