16. Cass
CASS
The burner shows up the next day.
I almost miss it. I’m walking past the entry table in the foyer on my way to the kitchen, balancing the dry cleaning over one arm and a bag of groceries on the other, when I clock the new addition to the little dish where Raymond drops his keys.
There, tucked at the bottom under his tangled key ring, is a sleek little black flip phone, no bigger than a credit card folded in half.
I almost drop everything I’m carrying.
I shouldn’t even be looking in that dish. Touching anything Raymond touches is normally a fast-track ticket to a sore jaw. But there it sits, plain as day, like it’s been there for years.
He’ll plant it somewhere only you would look, Matvei told me.
Apparently, the Blue-Eyed Bastard’s definition of “only you would look” is a little more daring than mine. I kinda get the feeling that he’s messing with me.
I snag it up and quickly tuck it into the waistband of my leggings. Then I drop the groceries on the counter and zoom straight to my bedroom.
In my walk-in closet, behind a hatbox on the top shelf, there’s a hollow space where the drywall meets the trim.
I discovered it about a year into our marriage and I’ve used it for a handful of small contraband over the years: a paperback I didn’t want him to know I was reading, a tube of lip gloss in a shade he hated, the burner laptop I used to dig into Khaza in the first place.
I slip the phone into the gap and push the hatbox back into place.
Then I sit on the closet floor, put my head between my legs in the emergency Mayday position, and breathe.
I wait until two in the morning to charge it.
Raymond is dead asleep, snoring through the hangover from a “boys’ dinner” with two of his partners.
I plug the burner into the outlet behind my vanity, where the cord disappears into the gap at the back, then take a seat cross-legged on the rug in the dark and watch the little screen blink to life.
There’s a single contact saved. M.S.
And one unread message.
M.S.
Hello, dikarka. If you’re reading this, you found it. Good girl.
My eyes prickle. I push the heel of my hand against them and curse Matvei under my breath for being able to do that to me from wherever he is.
I found it. Tucked under his keys, you crazy person. Are you trying to get me killed early?
He’d never look there. Men like him don’t look closely at things they think they already own.
I scowl at the screen.
That’s annoyingly insightful.
Every now and then, I have my moments.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
So now what?
The reply takes a minute. I picture him on the other end, in his apartment somewhere, in some dark room, hunched over his own matching little black phone.
Now, we work. There are four windows of opportunity in the next six weeks.
Lay it on me.
Tomorrow night, there’s a bar association dinner at the Pierre.
Two weeks out: partner retreat upstate. Three nights at a hunting lodge. Lots of trees. Nobody around.
Three weeks from now is the DeMaris wedding. She’s the daughter of a client. Plaza Hotel, black tie. You’ll be there.
And then the final opportunity. If all else fails, we do it the night before the Cayman flight.
My thumb hovers as I chew through the options.
So I assume we start from the beginning?
That’s usually how beginnings work, yes.
I flash a middle finger at my phone. He can’t see it, of course, but I like to think he feels the intention beamed his way.
Saturday it is then. What do you need from me?
Right now, nothing. That’s the part you have to trust me on.
That wasn’t the deal!
You wanted him gone. He’ll be gone. The rest of it, the part that’s ugly, that’s mine.
I type, then delete. Type, then delete. Type, then?—
No, I can’t do it. I want to, so badly, because the burden of this teensy little secret is actually killing me. But I can’t do it like this. This rinky-dink phone cannot contain the vast terror of the tiny bean in my belly.
I’ll do it this weekend. Once it’s done, I’ll tell him. I don’t know what’ll happen after that, but hey, that’s a problem for future Cass, right?
One thing at a time.
Murders first.
Babies second.
I lock the screen, unplug the phone, and tuck it back behind the hatbox. In bed, I lie on my back next to my husband and stare at the ceiling, my hands pressed flat between my hip bones.
Soon, I whisper, to the ceiling, to Matvei, and to the blueberry in my womb. Soon, soon, soon.
The OB I found runs a private practice on the Upper East Side. She’s discreet. Cash pay accepted. The receptionist on the phone has the velvet voice of someone who handles affairs, secrets, and women with reasons for keeping their business nameless.
Or at least, that’s what I was told. Now, though, the whole name thing seems to be a stumbling block.
“Eight A.M. tomorrow, Mrs.— I’m sorry, what was the last name?”
I almost say Snyder . The word is in my mouth, on the tip of my tongue, and halfway out before I swallow it and bury it deep in the shadowy recesses of my colon.
“Madden,” I say instead. “Cassandra Madden.”
That name has been retired for four years now, but it feels a bit like reclaiming the old me to say it out loud again.
“Got it. Eight A.M., Ms. Madden. Please bring a photo ID and a method of payment.” Just before I hang up, I hear her blurt: “Oh, and I forgot to ask: Would you like to add anyone else’s contact info to your appointment?”
“No. Just me.”
“Ms. Madden?”
I look up from the crossword puzzle I’m pretending to do to see a nurse waiting at the entryway to the exam rooms. I’m looking beyond ridiculous with big sunglasses and this ball cap pulled low over my face—TMZ is probably gonna assume I’m someone important and sell unflattering paparazzi shots of my cellulite-clad ass—but I couldn’t care less.
“That’s me.” I slouch toward her and follow her down a corridor that reeks of so much rubbing alcohol that I almost wonder if I’m singeing off my nose hairs. She leads me into a room with a paper-covered table and a computer screen on a swing arm.
“First visit?” she asks as we both get situated.
“Yes.”
“Any idea how far along?”
“Um… early. Like, three weeks since— um. Yeah. Early.”
“Okay. We’ll get a look and see what’s what. Pee in the cup first, if you could be so kind. Then strip from the waist down, drape the sheet over your lap, and Dr. Todd will be in shortly.”
I do as I’m told, then return to my seat on the crinkly paper. While I wait, I educate myself on all the variously important nooks and crannies of the human uterus throughout the pregnancy journey. Lots to learn. Who’s excited? Not me.
Dr. Todd is fifty-something, gray-haired, brisk. She doesn’t ask about a husband. Her questions focus solely on my last period, my cycle, my history, my medications. She asks if I feel safe at home.
I know better than to answer that one honestly. “Who, me? Oh, yeah. Yep. Uh-huh. Of course.”
“Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got.” She nods toward a long, slim wand on the tray beside her, a thing that looks like it belongs at a sci-fi convention, not in my body.
“It’s a little early for an abdominal scan, so we’ll be going transvaginal today.
You’ll feel some pressure, but it shouldn’t hurt.
Scoot down for me, heels in the stirrups. ”
Lovely. I do as instructed and try not to panic.
The screen flickers to life. Dr. Todd watches it more than she watches me, her hand steady, her face neutral. “Okay. There’s your uterus. And… there we go. See that little dark circle? That’s your gestational sac.”
I follow her finger to a tiny, lopsided black blot, no bigger than a pencil eraser, suspended in a sea of grainy gray static.
“And that little white speck inside it, that’s the yolk sac.”
“That’s it?” I blurt.
Dr. Todd huffs a kind laugh. “That’s it, for now.
You’re measuring about five weeks, three days.
It’s still early. We won’t see a fetal pole or hear a heartbeat for another week or two.
If that math sounds off, that’s because we count from the time of your last menstruation, not from the date of conception. ”
“So… is it okay?” I mumble. “Is it— Is there a heartbeat?”
“There may not be one yet to find. That’s normal at this stage.
We’ll bring you back in about two weeks for a follow-up to confirm viability and dating.
” She must clock the freaking-the-fuck-out look on my face, because she softens her voice and pats my knee through the sheet.
“What you’re seeing is exactly what I’d expect to see. No red flags. It’s just early.”
Confirm viability . As in, sometimes there isn’t any. As in, in two weeks, I might come back and find out my blueberry already gave up the ghost.
Dr. Todd hands me a paper towel and helps me sit up. “Based on your dates, due date works out to around September fourth. Give or take. We’ll pin that down at the next visit.”
The thought of concepts like “September” are basically fictional right now. Beyond the six-week cliff, my future is as gray and indistinct as the sonogram.
“Any questions for me?” the doctor asks.
I don’t trust my voice right now, so I just shake my head. Dr. Todd pats my knee again and tells me to dress, then leaves. The nurse stays behind, typing into the computer.
“So we’ll see you back in a couple of weeks for the next ultrasound,” she says, eyes on the screen, fingers clicking away. “Looks like Dr. Todd has openings—let me see—Tuesday the twenty-eighth at nine, or Thursday the thirtieth at eleven thirty…”
I’m half-dressed, leggings up, sweater being tugged down over my head, when she swivels in her chair and looks at me with her pen poised over the appointment card.
“… And would you like me to schedule that with the father, or just yourself?”
I freeze, one arm still trapped in my sleeve. “I’m sorry?”
“For the next visit.” Her face is patient, totally neutral, no judgment anywhere. “Sometimes, partners want to come for the bigger ultrasound. Or, sometimes, just Mom. Either way works. I just like to put a note in the file so we know what to expect.”
I stand there with my arm in my sleeve, feeling humiliated for no reason at all.
Matvei and I said we were partners, but not in this . He’s there to help me take life out of this world, not bring new life into it. So right now, I’m all alone in this department.
“Just me,” I manage to squeak. “For the next one. Just me, please.”
“Great.” She hands me a card with the date printed on it and a paper bag with a stack of pamphlets and a bottle of prenatals. “Don’t forget the vitamins. One a day. With food, ideally.”
I take everything, reassemble my shitty I do not wish to be perceived outfit, then stride as confidently as I can manage out of the office.
I make it half a block before I have to lean against the side of a building and hyperventilate.
It’s decided: I’ll tell him on Saturday. I’ll find a moment once all the madness is done and I’ll tell him.
Part of my motivation is truly selfless. A baby’s father deserves the chance to be included in some way, shape, or form.
But another part of it is as selfish as it gets. I need to know whether the man who took a knife for me before he knew my last name will still want to walk through fire for me when he finds out he’s not just walking for one.