Chapter 5 #2
His words hit like a bucket of ice water. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. What am I supposed to say? That the father doesn’t even know I’m pregnant? That I couldn’t reach him if I tried? That some nights I lie awake wondering if he ever thinks about me at all?
"Dude." Ella's voice comes from behind me, sharp and protective. "I don't know where your plastic-looking ass is from, but around here, we don't ask pregnant ladies intrusive questions about their birth plans. Now, can I get you a cookie with 'fuck right off' written on it, or are we done here?"
The man's smile widens, but it's the most unpleasant expression I've ever seen. He stands slowly, never breaking eye contact with my belly, and reaches out as if to touch it.
Ella moves faster than I've ever seen her move, positioning herself between us. "Unless you want to lose that hand, Ken Doll, I suggest you put it back in your pants where you usually keep it."
For a second, nobody moves. Then he pulls his hand back, still wearing that awful smile. He heads for the door, but not before turning to give me a look that chills me straight through. It’s not just interest. It’s ownership.
Then he's gone.
And suddenly, I can’t breathe.
The panic attack hits full force this time. The bakery tilts around me, and I'm dimly aware that I'm hyperventilating, that my vision is going spotty, that the baby is squirming inside me like she knows something's wrong.
"Sam, hey, look at me." Ella's hands cup my face, forcing me to focus on her eyes. "You're okay. You're safe. He's gone. Just breathe with me, okay? In for four counts, hold for four, out for four."
She talks me through the breathing, her voice steady and calm, until the world finally stops spinning. She steers me to a chair, and I sink into it, still clutching my stomach like it’s the only thing keeping me anchored.
The baby settles, her kicks slowing as I start to calm down. I focus on that, on her little movements, using them to keep myself grounded.
"Why has everyone gotten so weird?" I manage when I can finally speak again.
"Don't worry about that now." Ella crouches in front of me, her expression fierce. "Right now, just try to relax. That creep had to have been from out of town. I've never seen him before, and I'd definitely remember someone who looked like he'd come out of a wax museum like that guy did."
I nod, but it doesn’t help. Out of town or not, he knew exactly where to find me. And that woman this morning, she did too. They both came looking for something.
Looking for my baby.
The thought sends another wave of panic through me. I close my eyes and count my breaths, trying to keep it together.
"Listen," Ella says, standing. "You need to close up shop for the evening and go upstairs. Let me handle the rest of the day."
"I need to start prep for tomorrow," I protest weakly. "I can't just leave you with everything."
"Sam." Ella's voice is gentle but firm. "You're going to go upstairs and lie down, and I'm going to take care of it."
"But you have your own life," I argue. "Your event planning business. You have more than enough on your plate without babysitting me."
She shakes her head, already moving toward the back to grab the prep supplies. "I've got more than enough energy to handle all of it. Just go upstairs and take care of yourself. And the baby."
I don’t have it in me to argue. My limbs feel heavy, the kind of tired that goes deeper than just muscles. I push myself out of the chair and head for the back door and the stairs.
The stairs feel steeper than usual. By the time I reach my apartment door, I’m out of breath again, and the baby’s back to her gymnastics routine.
"Almost there," I whisper to her. "Then we can both rest."
I reach for the doorknob, and that's when I see it.
A piece of paper, folded and wedged into the gap between the door and the frame.
My hand trembles as I pull it free and unfold it. The message is written in a spidery hand, the letters precise and cold:
The child doesn't belong to you. It belongs to neither heaven nor earth.
The note slips from my fingers. I fumble with my keys, finally get the door open, and stumble inside. The door slams behind me, and I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, back pressed to the wood.
My hands go to my stomach, desperate and protective, and the tears come in big, ugly sobs that shake me all over.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the baby. "I'm so sorry."
Outside, the August sun keeps beating down on Caraway Cove, completely unaware of the mess unraveling in my chest. People go about their lives, and I’m here on my apartment floor, clutching my belly and wondering what kind of nightmare I’ve landed in.
The baby kicks, a gentle reminder that no matter how weird things get, she’s still here. Still real. Still mine.
"I won’t let anyone take you," I whisper, voice shaking. "I don’t care who they are or what they want. You’re mine. You’re mine."
But even as I say it, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m making a promise I might not be able to keep.
Somewhere out there, things I don’t understand are moving.
And they’re coming for my child.