Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The small room was painted with moonlight, giving me just enough to see what it contained.
The crib was in the far corner of the mostly empty room.
It was old and worn, with a few of the bars painted while others weren’t.
There was a wicker rocking chair just beside it, piled high with a combination of wrinkled hand-me-downs and brand new baby clothes.
A picture frame hung on the wall, though there was not yet a picture in it.
I moved across the room quickly, the rough carpet rubbing against my shoes on my way to him.
I took a deep breath, my vision clouding as tears quickly filled my eyes, then dropped down onto him before I could stop them. I reached into the crib and picked him up. He was dressed in only a diaper, his hair slick with sweat in the hot room. He’d grown so much in just a few days.
I lifted him to my chest, and he began to cry out, though he calmed at once against my skin.
He knew me.
He hadn’t forgotten.
I was still his mom.
“Shhh, Gray baby,” I whispered, inhaling his scent.
I never wanted to lose that smell, never wanted to let him go.
I was torn between standing there forever and savoring him, breaking down into sobs with gratitude at finally having him back, and running for our lives.
I squeezed him tightly, kissing his head and wiping down his cheeks. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here.”
I sucked in a breath as he let out another cry, and I bounced him feverishly.
My breasts filled with milk, painful and swollen at once, which only seemed to make his crying worse.
Panic swept through me, my body turning to ice as I tried and failed to calm him.
His body writhed in my arms, and I moved to the window, unlocking it with my free hand and attempting to lift it up.
I struggled against the heavy, painted-shut window. Come on, come on, come on. Gray’s cries grew louder, more fury-filled, in my ear. He was hungry. He was angry. He was afraid.
Behind me, the door flew open with a gust of air, and the light flipped on. I hadn’t heard her coming. I didn’t know she was there. I turned around in horror, staring at the face I’d had playing on a loop through my mind for days. Her hair was dark now, just like in her most recent picture.
Her eyes narrowed at me, the knife in her hand drawn high like an ancient dagger set to be slashed through a stone.
“Put him down,” she demanded, her voice low. I held up a hand, shielding him from her as she moved closer.
“Okay, okay… Don’t hurt him,” I begged, placing him back in the crib quickly before turning around, blocking Gray with my body.
“Palmer, right? What are you doing here?” she asked, her brow furrowed. “How did you find me?”
I shook my head. “Does it even matter? I just want him back. Let me take my baby, and I’ll never tell the police where you are.”
“You’ll never tell them anything anyway,” she said, spittle forming in the corners of her mouth. “You’re never leaving here. Don’t you get that, Palmer? You couldn’t just leave us alone, could you? Coming here tonight was a grave mistake.”
“I could never leave you alone as long as you had my son. I just want him back. Just let me take him, and I’ll go away. I promise you I will.”
“You could just go have another one. Don’t you know how lucky you are?” she cried, her hand shaking as she tightened her grip on the knife.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” I said, shaking my head. “I just want my son. Please. I can’t be without him.”
“You really don’t get it. He’s my son now. Mine. He’s not going home with you. He’s going to forget about you. He’s not going to ever know you existed.”
“Why?” I cried, turning as she moved around the room, always keeping my body between hers and the crib. “Why are you doing this?”
“He was never yours! He was supposed to be mine! He was supposed to be mine!” she fumed, her frail body shaking as it grew red with anger. I watched as she lowered the knife just a hair, trying to decide if I could catch her off guard and wrangle it from her grasp.
“He’s not, though, Katherine. He’s my son. He needs me—”
She lunged forward, and I put my hand up, grasping her wrist as she attempted to plunge the knife into my chest. I pushed back, my strength an even match for hers, even at my weakest. I shoved her, trying to grasp the knife, but she pulled it back, kicking me square in the stomach.
I fell to my knees, my arms wrapped around myself as I crawled away from her, trying to catch my breath.
Something was wrong. My stomach felt strange, red hot with pain.
When I glanced down, there was blood on my shirt.
She moved forward with purpose, grabbing hold of my hair, and I grasped the nearest thing I could find, a lamp on the nightstand next to the crib, and swiped it at her, every movement a white-hot poker to my stomach.
She met my arm with the knife, slicing into my skin, and I dropped the lamp.
“Ah!” I cried out, trying to get closer to the crib.
I couldn’t allow her to touch my baby again.
I darted past her, ignoring the pain in my stomach, and she spun around, her arm raised high in the air as she plunged the knife down.
One of my hands was pinned underneath me, supporting my weight, the other now carrying a deep, knife gash, and I found it impossible to move it quick enough.
I watched in slow motion as the knife came down, waiting for the blow.
I ducked, heard the whoosh of the door as it swung open and slammed into the wall, and watched the feet approaching just as the knife connected with my shoulder, the new pain competing with the old.
I screamed out, jerking back and looking up as the pain tore through my body, and I collapsed on the dingy carpet.
When I looked up, the woman stood above me, but rather than triumph on her face, there was pain.
Confusion. She looked down to where, on the center of her pink shirt, a violet circle grew.
She dropped the knife, stepping backward.
I gasped as I watched her fall, the pain in my stomach throbbing as my vision faded in and out, and I reached a hand around to staunch the bleeding from my shoulder.
I looked back to the doorway, still not believing what I saw.
He stood in the doorway, a large, bloody kitchen knife in his hand as he towered over her body with a terrifying grimace.
He was bleeding from his head and upper thigh, and completely covered in dirt.
When he looked at me, his expression softened, even underneath the mud.
“Ben?”