Chapter Thirty One #2
“There is no profile by a Cindy Sullivan,” he says.
“In fact, I'm not sure what numerous articles you’re referring to from Italy either.
There are a couple of them, yes. What you Americans refer to as gossip rags.
But beyond that, nothing else has anything but the official statement regarding Anna's death.”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
The fire snaps sharply, and this time I do flinch.
Mario sees it, but he does not reach for me.
“I read it,” I say.
“I believe you believe that.”
My head lifts. “Do not do that.”
“I am not doing anything.”
“Yes, you are. You’re making it sound like I imagined it.”
“I am telling you what I know.”
“And I’m telling you what I saw,” I say, upset. “I may be—”
Pregnant. I may be pregnant, but I’m not crazy.
His gaze holds mine for a long second.
“Where did you find it?” His voice is very careful.
“Online.”
“Specifically.”
“I don’t know the URLs off the top of my head,” I say, snippy. “I searched your name, and Hawthorne, and Anna. I bookmarked a dozen things.”
“You bookmarked them?”
“Yes, on my laptop.” I sit up straighter despite the exhaustion pulling at every part of me.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Your laptop is at your apartment?”
“Yes.”
He pulls his phone out and starts typing rapidly.
The abruptness steals my breath.
“Mario—”
“I’ll have someone bring it here.”
A ridiculous panic rises in me, sharp and practical and completely out of place.
“Wait.” He stops typing and lifts just his eyes to me. I don’t know what I want him to wait for. “Um. My key is in my purse. I don't know where it is right now.”
For the first time since he walked into this room, something almost like amusement touches his mouth.
“Your key,” he repeats. Yup, definitely amused.
“Yes,” I say primly. “A key. The thing you use to open locked doors.”
His mouth curves a little more, and God help me, after everything that has happened, after guns and lies and blood and fear, that tiny hint of amusement almost makes me cry.
“Of course,” he says.
I pull the blanket tighter around myself. “Do not sound like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m adorable for suggesting basic legal access requirements.”
“You are an attorney. I would expect nothing less.”
I narrow my eyes, well aware he’s making fun of me.
He simply finishes typing out his message and sets his phone on the side table.
“I am sending someone for your laptop. With your key.”
“Thank you.”
The almost-smile fades, but some of the hard edge has gone with it.
My hand moves to my stomach before I can stop it.
His eyes follow, and the air leaves him.
I feel it from across the space between us, that single silent shift in him, as if the whole world has tilted beneath his feet.
I close my fingers into the blanket over my abdomen.
“I’m pregnant.”
For a moment, he says nothing.
He does not move. He only looks at me, then at my hand, then back to my face.
The silence stretches long enough for fear to crawl up my throat.
“I took three tests,” I say quickly. “They were all positive. I know it needs to be confirmed properly. I know it’s early. Very early. I know there are things that can happen, but Dr. Santoro knows, and he said everything looks all right so far, but I need follow-up care and bloodwork and—”
“Victoria.”
My mouth closes.
His gentle voice makes my eyes burn.
He stands, then stops before taking a step toward me.
“May I come closer?” he asks.
That breaks me a little.
I nod, afraid to speak.
The first tear slips before I can stop it.
He crosses the space slowly and lowers himself onto the couch beside me. Not touching at first. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, the weight of him, the restraint in him.
Then he lifts one hand and wipes the tear from my cheek with his thumb.
“Pregnant,” he says.
It is barely more than breath.
I nod again.
His eyes move to my stomach.
For a moment, he does not speak.
His hand lowers, but it does not touch me there. It rests on his own thigh, fingers flexing once, as if he is holding himself back from something.
Possessiveness. Wonder. Fear.
Maybe all of it.
“I was going to tell you,” I say, and it sounds pathetic even to me.
His eyes return to mine.
“I was. I just needed to know first.”
“Know whether I murdered Anna.”
I flinch.
His expression tightens, but he does not apologize for saying it.
I deserve it.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His gaze holds mine for a long time.
Then he says, “I did not kill my wife.”
The answer is simple. Absolute.
I believe him.
That is the worst part.
I believe him immediately, and that makes the last four days feel even more unforgivable.
My breath breaks. “I know.”
“You know now?”
“I knew before,” I admit, voice shaking. “Somewhere. I think I knew before. But I got scared after finding out that I was pregnant, and I found just enough to make the fear seem justified, even while knowing it wasn’t.”
“And instead of coming to me, you went to a stranger.”
I close my eyes.
“Yes.”
His silence is worse than anger.
I open them again because I owe him that much.
“Because I was pregnant,” I say. “Because if there was any chance, even the smallest chance, that the father of my baby had killed his wife, I had to know before I told you. Before you could decide anything. Before I was in the middle of your life and couldn’t get out.”
His face hardens.
Not with rage.
With hurt.
I see it before he buries it.
“I would never hurt you,” he says.
“I know.”
“No,” he says. “You do not.”
The words hit me right in the gut.
“I do,” I say, ashamed. “That’s the worst part of all of this. I couldn’t be with you if I thought you would ever hurt me.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“But you don’t trust me.”
“I want to,” I say, because that is the truth. “I want to trust you. I think I do trust you. I just didn’t trust myself or what I knew in my gut.”
His jaw tightens.
The fire snaps again, but I do not flinch this time.
Maybe because he is beside me.
Maybe because I am finally saying the things I should have said before an apparent fake journalist and a man with a gun made them unavoidable.
Mario looks toward the fire for a moment.
When he speaks, his voice is controlled, but not cold.
“Anna died because she was pregnant.”
My heart stutters.
I stare at him.
He does not look at me yet.