Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“What do you mean?” I’d die for this baby if that’s what it takes, but I’d still have to carry it for nine months.
“You won’t really die, of course. But you’ll have to convince everyone you’ve died.”
“How?” I ask, my heart racing. Fake my own death? That sounds like something out of a Hollywood spy movie. “Drown in the sea?”
Mom shakes her head. “That would raise a red flag when your body doesn’t wash up on the shore. I’ve talked to someone I trust. All you have to do is take a hike and never come home.”
My jaw drops. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.” Mom nods. “It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s also believable because you’ve gone camping before with your sisters.”
I nod, the plan taking shape in my mind. Still, doubt gnaws at me. “Is it really that easy?”
Mom nods. “I asked the same question. I’ve been assured that it is.”
“Who did you talk to?” My dad has a ton of advisors for all kinds of criminal activities, but my mom has stayed firmly out of the family business, as is tradition.
“Don’t worry. He’s helped many people disappear. He’ll arrange for your new identity. It will work.” With a serious expression, Mom looks me in the eye. “The difficult part is cutting ties to your old life. Once you walk away, you can never turn back. You can’t slip up and use your old name. Can’t call, text, or even send a letter home. Can’t Google yourself.”
“Grace Esposito will die, and I’ll be someone else.”
“Yes.” Mom’s gaze softens as she nods. “I’m sorry I can’t come up with a better plan. If I want my grandchild to live, I have to let my child die.”
In the morning, I clench the smartphone in my hand as I sit in bed. I saved Matt’s phone number in the cab ride home from the club, but I haven’t gone further than hovering my thumb over the green call button.
Deep in my gut, I feel like he needs to know. Yes, we’ve only met once. But I’ll give birth to his baby. It feels wrong to just leave him in the dark.
At the same time, what’s the point of him knowing? After I disappear, I won’t be able to ever get in touch with him. I’ll move to the other side of the country and forget about my old life, about everything I’ve ever known.
Mom specifically told me to never reach out to the baby’s father. She didn’t even want to know who he is because she was worried they’d get the name out of her and hunt him down.
Currently, nobody knows I ever went to that club. But what if they look into it and figure out who the father is? What if they torture him to find out where I am and hurt my baby, all while a war rages between the two families?
The risks are too high.
But at the same time, it’s just a phone call . . . right?
I don’t even have to tell him anything. I just . . . need to talk to him, hear that deep, smooth voice again.
It’ll make me feel better. I feel like I’m drowning in a pit of crap, and I need something to make life suck a little less.
I take a deep breath, but it only makes the throbbing in my throat more intense.
Okay, I’m doing this.
My heart races as I press my phone against my ear and listen to the electronic tone.
Oh, God. I’m really doing this.
What am I going to say?
Hi, I’m Ashley. Remember me? We had sex doggy style, oh, two weeks ago? By the way, I’m pregnant with your baby.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice from the other end of the line jerks me back to reality.
Who am I talking to? Why does this woman have Matt’s phone?
A dull ache hits my chest as I think about him in bed with someone else, soft sheets wrapped around sweaty, naked bodies. Maybe Matt has just fallen asleep next to her, his brown hair tousled after a vigorous session of morning sex.
That wouldn’t be my business. It’s not like we’re exclusive, even if I am carrying his baby.
“Hi, uh . . . is this Matt’s phone?” I ask.
“Matt?” The woman sounds puzzled.
Maybe I punched in the wrong number. The spark of hope in my chest is short-lived as it dawns on me that maybe his name isn’t really Matt, or maybe he gave me a fake number on purpose.
No. He wouldn’t do that. He seemed so eager to see me again.
“Yeah,” I say into the phone. “Matt told me to call this number. We met at the club?”
A lump wedges itself in my throat and throbs as the woman remains silent. Is she his girlfriend? His wife? Was Matt cheating on her with me? The thought fills my stomach with acid.