Chapter 3 The Longest Mile

The rain began as a cold, mocking drizzle, turning the grime of the alley into a slick black sludge.

Valentina.... no, she had to stop thinking of herself as the woman who loved Kennedy forced her fingers to dig into the wet pavement. Her muscles screamed, the paralytic leaving behind a lingering, leaden tremor that made every movement feel like wading through thick tar.

She dragged herself upright, leaning against a graffiti-stained brick wall. Every breath felt like swallowing shards of glass; her throat was a ring of fire where Kennedy's thumbs had tried to extinguish her soul.

She began to walk. Each step was a battle against gravity. She was a phantom in a torn silk gown, a ruined bride of the night, trailing the faint, ironic scent of expensive lilies and cemetery dirt.

As she stumbled toward the mouth of the alley, the neon glare of the city hit her like a physical blow. She passed a high-end boutique, its glass polished to a mirror finish. Valentina stopped. She didn't mean to look, but the creature in the reflection demanded her attention.

A hollow-cheeked woman stared back. Her hair was a matted bird's nest of mud and dried rose petals. Her neck was branded with a grotesque, blackened necklace of bruises, the fingerprints of a man who had promised her forever. She looked like something that had crawled out of a nightmare, not the socialite who had graced the covers of local galas.

I died in that tub, she thought, a hysterical sob bubbling in her chest. This is just the ghost walking home.

She reached a public park, the wrought-iron benches glistening like bone in the moonlight. She needed a phone.

A priest. A stranger with a shred of mercy. But as she approached a passerby, a man in a sharp suit, he recoiled, his lip curling in disgust.

"Get away from me, you crackhead," he spat, sidestepping her as if her misery were contagious.

The rejection stung more than the cold. She was invisible to the world she once belonged to. She was trash now, just as Kennedy had said.

Suddenly, a white-hot spike of pain detonated in her lower abdomen.

Valentina gasped, her knees buckling. She collapsed behind a large oak tree, the rough bark scraping her bare shoulder. She clutched her stomach, her breath coming in panicked, shallow hitches.

"No," she whimpered, her voice a shredded rasp. "Not you. Please stay. Don't leave me alone."

The cramp deepened, a dull, heavy ache that felt like an ending. She was terrified to look down, terrified to see red staining the muddy hem of her dress. If she lost the baby, she had nothing left to fight for. The child was the only thing Kennedy hadn't managed to steal yet.

She curled into a ball on the cold roots of the tree, whispering a frantic, broken lullaby to the life inside her, her tears carving clean streaks through the filth on her face.

Fight, little one. If I'm still breathing, you have to be too.

After ten minutes of agonizing stillness, the pain receded into a dull throb. A miracle. A temporary reprieve.

She forced herself back up, her vision swimming with exhaustion, her mind a fog of trauma and hunger.

The wind picked up, howling through the concrete canyons of the city. Something white and shimmering danced across the pavement a few yards away.

Her heart leaped. The silk clutch.

The one Kennedy wanted to bury alongside her.

Martha had packed it with the dirt and slyly given it to her before urging her to escape.

It was the bag she had carried during their romantic dinner. Inside was her wedding ring, a five-carat lie, and her ID.

It was the only proof that she existed, the only currency she had left to buy a way out of this city. It was her only hope to find a doctor, a place to hide, a future.

The bag tumbled, caught in a playful, cruel gust. It skittered toward the edge of the curb, toward the busy intersection of 5th and Main.

"Wait," she croaked, her legs moving with a sudden, desperate burst of adrenaline.

She ignored the ache in her womb. She ignored the way her lungs burned. That bag was her shield, her weapon, her identity. She chased it, her bare feet slapping against the cold asphalt, her fingers outstretched like a drowning woman reaching for a lifeline.

The bag flew into the center of the crosswalk.

Valentina lunged. Her fingers brushed the silk, cold, wet, and real. She snatched it to her chest, a sob of triumph breaking from her lips as she curled her body around the small treasure.

Then, the world turned white.

A roar of an engine, like a beast awakened, filled her ears. The screech of high-performance tires tore through the night air, a sound of tearing metal and screaming rubber. Two blinding, celestial orbs of light eclipsed the city, heading straight for her.

She didn't have the strength to jump. She didn't have the time to scream.

Valentina squeezed the bag to her heart, shut her eyes tight, and felt the hot, metallic breath of the radiator against her skin.

She braced for the impact, for the bones to shatter, for the final darkness to take her back to the water where Kennedy had left her.

I'm sorry, little one, she whispered in the silence of her soul. At least we'll be together.

But instead of the cold embrace of death, two small, frantic forces slammed into her side.

"Mommy!"

The impact knocked her off her feet, sending her rolling across the asphalt just as the black beast of a car hissed to a halt inches from where she had been.

Valentina gasped for air, her head spinning, only to find herself pinned to the ground by four small, trembling arms and the scent of vanilla and expensive soap.

"Mommy, you're finally back!"