Chapter One
I don’t remember exactly how I ended up with
my face plastered against a slab of concrete.
My shoulder is shaken roughly, and I groan
in pain. Due to the tenderness of my breasts, it feels like I am
being dragged across the surface of a cheese grater.
Forcing my eyelids to open halfway, I
struggle to lift my hand and press it against my temple. My brain
is pounding like a jackhammer, and the world is spinning. When I
can finally attempt to focus, I realize that there is a suitcase
lying a few feet away from me, and I stare at it in puzzlement. Where am I? I must have had a small stroke, seizure, brain
aneurysm, or something of the sort.
Then I remember why.
My fingers fall to the ground. I lie there
for a few more seconds, completely limp. I almost wish I had fallen
a little more strategically, and cracked my head open on the
concrete stairs. Then I wouldn’t have to feel any of this pain.
Emotional, or otherwise. I guess I did come all this way for
knowledge, but I didn’t expect an old woman’s words to be powerful
enough to knock me to the ground.
Maybe I should have taken Owen up on his
offer to come out here with me. I must still be quite weak if I can
collapse so easily. This sort of thing has never happened to me
before—but then again, I don’t think I’ve ever received news quite
like this. I shouldn’t have stubbornly refused Owen’s help, but
he’s been there so much for me lately and I wanted to stop being a
burden. Still, I wish to God he were here right now.
My breasts hurt like a bitch.
The massive mounds are engorged to the point
of exploding; swollen with sustenance for my daughter. My murdered
daughter. Fathered by a murdered man. Perhaps Grayson being driven
insane to the point where he took his own life was indirect or
unintentional, but it makes no difference to me.
My husband is gone. I’ve lost everything.
And it’s his fault.
Brad. That bastard.
I become suddenly aware that someone is
speaking to me.
“Are you okay, dear?” a woman’s voice is
saying with distress. “Should I call an ambulance?”
Taking a deep breath, I try to push myself a
few inches off the ground. “No,” I say hoarsely. “Water. I just
need water.”
“Carmen, was it?” the woman asks softly.
“Why don’t you come inside and lie down on the sofa? Here, let me
help you.”
I let her grasp my arm and pull me to my
feet, and I dizzily lean against her. She guides me over to lie on
a worn old couch, and I collapse inelegantly against the cushions.
“My suitcase,” I murmur, looking to the front door with worry.
“I’ll bring it for you,” she tells me.
“Don’t you worry, dear. Just rest.”
I let my head roll against the arm of the
sofa. My heart is beating so loudly that I feel it might break my
ribcage in half. Additionally, there is a strange pulsing feeling
in my empty belly, and I press my hands over my stomach with
confusion and anxiety. “Brad did this,” I mutter to myself, nearly
choking on the words. “He did this to me. He must have.” I try to
force understanding into my slow and disbelieving brain. I find a
bit of nausea stirring in my gut as I try to process this
information.
“What is it, dear?” Grayson’s mother asks as
she moves to my side.
I shake my head, unable to respond
coherently. “He... did this.”
Seeing my state of shock, she brings a cool
glass of water to my lips. It takes me a moment before I am able to
sip the liquid, and the refreshing sensation of it tumbling down my
throat revives me a little. I am able to breathe a little slower
and think a little more clearly as my headache begins to ease.
“Are you talking about Brad?” the woman
asks. “What did he do?”
“My baby,” I tell her quietly. “I lost my
baby a few days ago.”
The woman pauses before responding. “Oh. I
see.” She places the clear glass of water down on the coffee table
nervously; her wizened fingers are swollen with arthritis and
shaking with
I don’t remember exactly how I ended up with
my face plastered against a slab of concrete.
My shoulder is shaken roughly, and I groan
in pain. Due to the tenderness of my breasts, it feels like I am
being dragged across the surface of a cheese grater.
Forcing my eyelids to open halfway, I
struggle to lift my hand and press it against my temple. My brain
is pounding like a jackhammer, and the world is spinning. When I
can finally attempt to focus, I realize that there is a suitcase
lying a few feet away from me, and I stare at it in puzzlement. Where am I? I must have had a small stroke, seizure, brain
aneurysm, or something of the sort.
Then I remember why.
My fingers fall to the ground. I lie there
for a few more seconds, completely limp. I almost wish I had fallen
a little more strategically, and cracked my head open on the
concrete stairs. Then I wouldn’t have to feel any of this pain.
Emotional, or otherwise. I guess I did come all this way for
knowledge, but I didn’t expect an old woman’s words to be powerful
enough to knock me to the ground.
Maybe I should have taken Owen up on his
offer to come out here with me. I must still be quite weak if I can
collapse so easily. This sort of thing has never happened to me
before—but then again, I don’t think I’ve ever received news quite
like this. I shouldn’t have stubbornly refused Owen’s help, but
he’s been there so much for me lately and I wanted to stop being a
burden. Still, I wish to God he were here right now.
My breasts hurt like a bitch.
The massive mounds are engorged to the point
of exploding; swollen with sustenance for my daughter. My murdered
daughter. Fathered by a murdered man. Perhaps Grayson being driven
insane to the point where he took his own life was indirect or
unintentional, but it makes no difference to me.
My husband is gone. I’ve lost everything.
And it’s his fault.
Brad. That bastard.
I become suddenly aware that someone is
speaking to me.
“Are you okay, dear?” a woman’s voice is
saying with distress. “Should I call an ambulance?”
Taking a deep breath, I try to push myself a
few inches off the ground. “No,” I say hoarsely. “Water. I just
need water.”
“Carmen, was it?” the woman asks softly.
“Why don’t you come inside and lie down on the sofa? Here, let me
help you.”
I let her grasp my arm and pull me to my
feet, and I dizzily lean against her. She guides me over to lie on
a worn old couch, and I collapse inelegantly against the cushions.
“My suitcase,” I murmur, looking to the front door with worry.
“I’ll bring it for you,” she tells me.
“Don’t you worry, dear. Just rest.”
I let my head roll against the arm of the
sofa. My heart is beating so loudly that I feel it might break my
ribcage in half. Additionally, there is a strange pulsing feeling
in my empty belly, and I press my hands over my stomach with
confusion and anxiety. “Brad did this,” I mutter to myself, nearly
choking on the words. “He did this to me. He must have.” I try to
force understanding into my slow and disbelieving brain. I find a
bit of nausea stirring in my gut as I try to process this
information.
“What is it, dear?” Grayson’s mother asks as
she moves to my side.
I shake my head, unable to respond
coherently. “He... did this.”
Seeing my state of shock, she brings a cool
glass of water to my lips. It takes me a moment before I am able to
sip the liquid, and the refreshing sensation of it tumbling down my
throat revives me a little. I am able to breathe a little slower
and think a little more clearly as my headache begins to ease.
“Are you talking about Brad?” the woman
asks. “What did he do?”
“My baby,” I tell her quietly. “I lost my
baby a few days ago.”
The woman pauses before responding. “Oh. I
see.” She places the clear glass of water down on the coffee table
nervously; her wizened fingers are swollen with arthritis and
shaking with
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