Chapter 42 – Chrissy
Chapter
Forty-Two
CHRISSY
The fluorescent lights in Bayview Hospice always felt too bright, like they were trying to compensate for something dimmer in the rooms. Granny Irene’s door was cracked open, and when I pushed it wider, she looked up from her bed with that sudden, brilliant smile that still caught me off guard on good days.
“There’s my girl,” she said, voice thin but clear, reaching out both hands. “Come here, Chrissy-girl. Let me see you.”
My throat tightened instantly. I crossed the room fast, careful not to jostle the IV line taped to the back of her hand, and bent to hug her. She smelled like the same powdery lotion she’d used my whole life, faint under the antiseptic.
Ben followed quieter, carrying the little white bakery box tied with red string. He’d worn the soft gray hoodie today — hood down, scars on full display — because Granny always scolded him if he tried to hide. She reached past me and patted his cheek with surprising strength.
“And there’s my handsome boy. Don’t think I didn’t notice you lurking in the doorway, Ben.”
Ben’s mouth curved, the way it only ever did for her.
“Afternoon, Irene.”
We settled in. I pulled the rolling tray over so she could pick at the lemon cookies while I painted her nails the soft pink she loved.
Ben took the corner chair, newspaper folded on his lap like camouflage, but Granny kept dragging him into the conversation, asking about the roses she insisted we should plant in the spring, teasing him about letting the jasmine overrun the solarium, demanding to know if Lucia had taught him to make a proper red gravy yet.
For almost two hours it was perfect. She was sharp, funny, present. She hummed while I worked on her nails, off-key but stubborn, like she was daring the disease to steal that too. She made Ben promise — again — to plant the thorny roses in the solarium come spring.
“The ones that bite back,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Like you.”
Then, mid-sentence, the light behind her eyes flickered.
She was telling me about the summer I turned seven, how I’d tried to rescue every frog from the drainage ditch behind her house, when she stopped. Blinked. Frowned at my face like she was trying to place me.
“Now… who did you say you were again, honey?”
The words landed soft, almost polite, but they punched straight through my sternum.
I forced a smile, kept my voice steady.
“Just visiting, that’s all.”
She nodded slowly, gaze drifting to Ben. Her brow creased.
“And you… tall fella… you look familiar, but I can’t quite…”
Ben leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gentle as I’d ever seen him.
“We’re the ones who bring the lemon cookies, ma’am. The good ones from Fairhope.”
A faint smile tugged at her mouth.
“Well, that’s kind of you. Real kind. I’m tired now, though. Think I’ll rest a spell.” She patted my hand — still resting on hers — absently, like comforting a stranger. “Y’all come back anytime. It gets lonely here.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and capped the nail polish.
“We will. Sleep well, Granny.”
She was already sinking back into the pillows, eyes fluttering closed.
Ben stood first, touching my shoulder. I leaned down one last time, pressed a kiss to her forehead. She didn’t stir.
We slipped out quietly. The hallway felt longer on the way back, the antiseptic smell sharper. I didn’t speak until we reached the parking lot, and even then my voice came out small.
“I’m not driving.”
Ben didn’t argue. He’d let me take the wheel this morning in his hand-restored metal-flake crimson ’67 Camaro — the one he usually babied like a firstborn — because I’d wanted the distraction of that rumbling big-block on the drive over.
Now he just opened the passenger door for me, waited until I was settled, then circled to the driver’s side.
The leather seats still smelled faintly of the detail shop and the pine tree air freshener he pretended not to like. He fired it up, the engine settling into that low, predatory growl, and eased us out of the lot.
We hadn’t even reached the stop sign at the highway when his phone buzzed in the console. UNKNOWN NUMBER flashed on the screen. He glanced at me; I nodded. He hit speaker.
“Stonewood.”
“Mr. Stonewood, this is Assistant District Attorney Ramirez. Sorry to call on a weekend, but I wanted to give you and Mrs. Stonewood the update personally.”
Ben’s hand tightened on the shifter.
“Go ahead.”
“We’re denying any plea offers to Vivian Stonewood.
Her attorney floated one yesterday for manslaughter on your father, for which she’d get maybe fifteen years, tops.
We shut it down. We’ve got the recorded confession, the forensic matches on the brake line tampering, the medication logs, the emails.
It’s ironclad. We’re going for murder in the first on Jacob Stonewood, attempted murder on you, and the fraud counts. Asking for life, no parole.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Ramirez continued, his voice steady.
“Bail remains denied. She’s still in county — no visitors except counsel, no outside contact. Her assets are frozen pending forfeiture. Trial’s docketed for March, but between the confession and the evidence chain, it’s a formality. She’s not walking out of this one.”
Ben’s jaw flexed.
“Appreciate the call, Counselor.”
“Least we could do. You two take care.”
The line went dead.
Ben set the phone back in the console, eyes on the road. For a long moment the only sound was the Camaro’s idle and the wind whistling through the oaks.
“She’s never getting out,” he said quietly. Almost like he was testing the words, making sure they were real.
“No,” I whispered. “She’s not.”
He reached over, found my hand, laced our fingers tight. The crimson fenders caught the late sun as we turned toward home, and for the first time in a long time, the weight on my chest felt a little lighter.
We rode in silence for a few miles, the Camaro’s rumble filling the space where words should have been. Ben kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my knee, his touch steady and grounding, like he knew I was unraveling inside even if I hadn’t said it out loud yet.
Then it happened.
A weird little nauseous slip low in my stomach, the kind that usually came right before my period hit. That familiar crampy flutter, like my body was gearing up for the inevitable. I shifted in the seat, waiting for the tell-tale ache in my lower back or the heaviness that always followed.
Nothing else came.
I frowned, reached for my phone in the cup holder, and opened the cycle tracking app I’d been using since college. The little calendar popped up, color-coded and reliable. I scrolled back.
Period Due: December 27.
I stared at the empty red circle that should have been filled in by now. Christmas had come and gone. New Year’s. We were five days into January, and… nothing. No spotting, no cramps beyond that one weird flip, no flow.
My heart started pounding harder than the Camaro’s engine.
I was late.
Really late.
“Ben,” I said, voice quieter than I meant it to be. “Pull into the next pharmacy.”
He glanced over immediately, blue eyes sharpening.
“You okay? You’re pale.”
“I’m fine.” I swallowed, trying to sound casual even though my pulse was racing. “Just need to grab something real quick.”
He didn’t question it again, just flicked the blinker and turned into the lot of a small strip-mall pharmacy in Loxley, the kind with flickering neon OPEN signs and a single row of crooked parking spaces.
He killed the engine and was out of the car before I’d even unbuckled, circling around to open my door like he always did when he sensed something was off.
Inside, the place smelled like floor cleaner and cough drops.
I headed straight for the family-planning aisle near the back, Ben a silent shadow at my side.
The shelves were packed with rows and rows of boxes in every color, promising early detection, digital readouts, lines or plus signs or actual words.
I stopped in front of them and just… froze.
There were too many. Some said ‘6 days sooner’, some ‘99% accurate from the day of your missed period’, some had two tests, some had five. One even claimed to estimate how many weeks. My brain short-circuited.
Ben stepped up behind me, chest brushing my back, hands settling lightly on my hips.
“What are we looking at, angel?”
I exhaled shakily and tilted my head toward the overwhelming wall of pink and blue boxes.
“Which one do we get?”
The air around us went perfectly still.
His fingers tightened on my hips, just enough that I felt it through my jeans. I could practically hear his heartbeat pick up against my spine.
“You’re late?” he asked, voice low, rough, like he was afraid to say it too loud and jinx it.
“Nine days.”
A sharp inhale. Then his arms slid around my waist, one big hand splaying possessively over my stomach like he was already protecting what might be growing there.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my hair. “Okay.”
He reached past me without letting go, scanning the shelves with that intense focus he got when he was in mission mode. He grabbed a pink box — digital readout, early detection, two tests — then added a second identical one, and for good measure a third that promised results in one minute.
“No chances,” he muttered, dropping them into the basket he’d snagged from the end cap. “We’re doing this right.”
I huffed a nervous laugh, leaning back into him.
“Bossy britches.”
His mouth brushed my ear.
“You have no idea.”
We paid quickly — cash, because Ben still hated using cards in small places — and were back in the Camaro in under five minutes. He didn’t start the engine right away. Just turned to me, eyes dark and blazing with something fierce and hopeful and a little terrified.
“Home?” he asked.
I nodded, throat tight.
“Home.”
Ben didn’t speak the rest of the drive, but his hand stayed glued to my thigh, thumb rubbing slow, possessive circles like he was already staking claim on whatever might be growing inside me.
The Camaro ate up the miles, crimson paint flashing under the streetlights as dusk settled over Stonewood.
Ashgrove House loomed ahead, windows glowing warm against the dark, and for the first time it really hit me: this was our home.
No more lodge shadows, no more games. Just us.
He parked in the garage and killed the engine, but neither of us moved. The paper bag from the pharmacy sat in my lap like it weighed fifty pounds.
“You ready?” he asked, voice low.
“No,” I admitted. “But let’s do it anyway.”
We went in through the side door, straight to the downstairs powder room off the kitchen, the closest one, no stairs to climb on shaky legs.
Ben set the bag on the marble counter and pulled out the boxes, lining them up like ammunition.
Three different brands, all digital, all promising answers in three minutes or less.
I took them one by one, hands trembling just enough that he noticed and covered them with his own, steadying me. He didn’t hover in the bathroom — gave me the space I needed — but he was right outside the door, back against the wall, arms crossed like he was holding himself together by force.
I capped the last stick, washed my hands, and opened the door. He straightened instantly, eyes searching my face.
“Three minutes,” I said.
He nodded once, sharp, then pulled me into the hallway and backed me gently against the wall. His forehead dropped to mine, scarred cheek brushing my skin, breath warm and uneven.
“Whatever it says,” he murmured, “we’re good, Chrissy. You and me. We’re already good.”
But his hands were shaking too, fingers laced through mine, squeezing tight.
We set the timer on his phone for 180 seconds that felt like 180 years.
We didn’t sit. We paced the wide hallway instead, orbiting each other like twin moons.
He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering curses under his breath.
I chewed my thumbnail raw, heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears.
When the alarm chimed, we both froze.
“You look,” I whispered.
He shook his head.
“Together.”
We walked into the bathroom side by side. The three tests sat in a neat row on the counter, face-up, merciless.
PREGNANT
PREGNANT
PREGNANT
The word stared back in bold black letters, no ambiguity, no faint lines to argue over.
Ben made a sound — half laugh, half broken growl — and then his arms were around me, lifting me clean off the floor. He spun me once, careful even in his frenzy, then set me down and dropped to his knees right there on the tile, hands framing my stomach like it was already sacred.
“Fuck,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to my belly. “We did it. You’re carrying my baby.”
Tears blurred my vision, happy and overwhelmed. I laughed through them, fingers threading through his dark hair.
“Yeah. Looks like it.”
He looked up at me, blue eyes shining, fierce and soft all at once.
“I told you I was going to put a baby in you.”
I snorted, wiping my cheeks.
“Pretty sure your exact words were a lot filthier than that.”
A slow, wicked grin spread across his scarred face, but his voice dropped into that low, reverent register he saved for moments like this.
“I told you, angel — that night in the lodge, when I had you pinned to the bed and you were begging so pretty — I told you I was going to fill you up, breed you deep, make you mine in every way that matters. I meant it. Every single time.”
Heat flashed through me at the memory of one of the first nights he’d stopped pretending he wasn’t going to bury himself inside me, maybe even the first night he stopped being careful.
Sometime mid-December, right in the thick of the Game, when the lines between truth and lies had blurred and all that was left was raw need.
“Conception was probably that week,” I said softly, doing the quick math. “Right around when everything went to hell and back.”
He rose slowly, hands sliding up to cup my face, thumbs brushing away the tears.
“Best hell I’ve ever been through.”
I leaned into him, forehead to his chest, listening to his heart thunder.
“We’re having a baby, Ben.”
“Yeah,” he whispered against my hair, arms wrapping around me like he’d never let go. “We’re having a baby.”
He kissed me then, slow, deep, full of wonder and possession and promise. When he pulled back, his grin was boyish and devastating.
“Better start thinking about names,” he said. “And a nursery. And maybe soundproofing our bedroom, because I plan on keeping you pregnant as often as you’ll let me.”
I laughed, the sound wet and joyful, and kissed him again.
Outside, the winter night pressed against the windows, but inside Ashgrove House, everything felt warm, bright, and brand-new.