Page 166 of Wicked Brutal

I’ve been thinking about today for a week. Darla told me we’d be far enough along now that we’d get a much better look. She wants to check measurements. Make sure everything is developing the way it should. And the heartbeat. Today I get to hear my baby’s heartbeat. Ryan’s baby. Our baby. The tiny little person currently making eggs my mortal enemy.

“You’ll come directly home,” Dad repeats.

I put down the toast. “What if I have something after school?”

His gaze sharpens. “Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Mom is standing at the counter. Her back is mostly to us. Mostly. I see her glance over.

Dad takes another drink of coffee. “If something comes up, you call me.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Not your mother.” Mom goes still. Just for a second. Then she opens the refrigerator.

I don’t look at her. “Understood.”

Dad studies me. “Your phone stays on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He goes back to his newspaper.

I head out the door, toast in hand. Daniel opens the rear door of the town car for me. I wait until we’ve pulled away from the house before reaching for my phone. Ryan has already texted.

Ryan: you alive

apparently under armed transport now

Ryan: what

new driver. dad says he takes me to school and picks me up at 3:15. straight home.

Ryan: fuck

Ryan: don’t cancel anything

how exactly do you propose I disappear with a driver waiting for me

Ryan: I don’t… yet

Normally that would make me smile, today it doesn’t because there isn’t time for Ryan to magically solve everything anymore. April sixth is sitting on a calendar whether we like it or not.

I put my hand low against my stomach. And I absolutely cannot get on an international flight with a pregnancy my dad doesn’t know exists.

My phone buzzes.

Ryan: you’re seeing our baby today

figure it out then.

I put the phone away. Because for once, I don’t want reassurance. I want a fucking solution.

Daniel doesn’t drive away when I get out at Edgewood. I know because I look back. He’s sitting behind the wheel. Watching the entrance. Fine. Whatever. Maybe Dad told him to make sure I actually walk into the building instead of making a run for Mexico before homeroom.