Page 204 of Mile High Ruin

“Sloane.”

I can’t speak.

His hand stays where it is, barely touching me now.

His voice is almost unrecognizable when he asks, “You’re pregnant?”

33

VADIM

For several seconds, I can’t move. My hand is still resting against the curve of her stomach, and the shape beneath my palm is so obvious now that I know what I’m touching that I can’t understand how I failed to see it before.

The loose coats. The oversized sweaters. The way she has been standing in photographs lately with bags held in front of herself or one arm folded across her middle. The way she has looked more tired than she should, more careful when she moves, more protective of her body without ever appearing consciously aware of it.

Seven months, perhaps. Maybe less.

Enough that I should have noticed. Enough that I feel something very close to humiliation at the fact that I didn’t.

Sloane’s eyes are fixed on mine. She has gone pale.

I remove my hand as though I’ve touched something I’m not permitted to touch.

Then I step back. The distance between us feels wrong immediately, but I need it because there’s one question screaming through my head and I can’t bring myself to ask it.

Whose?

The answer I want is too dangerous. The answer I fear is worse.

Petrov.

The name enters my mind before I can stop it, and with it comes every photograph, every report, every piece of evidence I’ve spent months arranging around her.

What if his plan was deeper than I imagined?

What if Sloane was never merely useful to him?

What if she was his before she ever stepped onto my aircraft?

The thought is so violent that I almost laugh at myself.

No. I can’t do this here.

Not with her looking at me like that.

Not with Anton ten meters away pretending not to hear.

“Sloane.”

She says nothing. I look down at her stomach again. I hate that my eyes go there. I hate even more that something inside me responds to the sight with a primitive, irrational pull that I don’t understand.

“You’re pregnant.”

This time it’s not a question.

She swallows. “Yes.”

The word is quiet.