Chapter 3 3

The light came through a gap in the curtains, a blade of November sun that cut across Denice's face and dragged her from dreams she couldn't remember. She woke with a gasp, her hand flying to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Jasper lay beside her, faced away. The sheet had slipped to his waist, exposing his back-the broad planes of muscle, the ridge of spine, and the scar. She stared at it, unable to look away. Five years, and she still knew every millimeter of that mark. The way it widened near his shoulder, where the stitches had pulled. The way it narrowed to a point above his hip, where the knife had exited.

Her fingers twitched. She wanted to touch it. She wanted to press her mouth to it and weep.

She eased toward the edge of the bed, her bare feet finding the carpet. The movement was silent, practiced-she'd learned to leave beds without waking their occupants, first her mother's when the nightmares came, then Jasper's when she'd still believed in sneaking out before dawn preserved some illusion of independence.

"Where are you going?"

She froze. One foot on the floor, one knee still on the mattress, caught in transition.

Jasper hadn't turned. His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than his waking tone, and for a moment-just a moment-she heard the boy he'd been, the one who'd whispered her name like a prayer in the dark.

"Work," she said. She found her clothes, crumpled on the floor where they'd fallen last night, and pulled the dress over her head without bothering with undergarments. The fabric stuck to her skin, still damp from the restaurant. "I have a shift at the clinic."

Jasper sat up. The sheet pooled in his lap. His eyes found hers, and whatever softness sleep had lent him evaporated. "Work."

"Yes."

He looked at the clock. 6:23 AM. "You just sold your body for your son's life. And you're rushing off to earn-what? Minimum wage?"

Denice's hands stilled on her zipper. She didn't answer. She couldn't answer. The truth-that the clinic paid fourteen dollars an hour, that she needed every dollar for the rent Bea's lawyers hadn't yet found a way to seize, that she couldn't survive on Montgomery charity because Montgomery charity came with strings that would eventually strangle her-was too vulnerable to speak aloud.

"Answer me." He was out of bed, crossing the space between them in three strides. His hand closed on her shoulder, spinning her to face him. "Your son is dying. You're here because I agreed to-" He gestured at the bed, the rumpled sheets, the evidence of what they'd done. "And you're telling me you care more about some charity clinic than about-"

"I care about surviving." The words came out flat, mechanical. She'd practiced them so often they felt true even when they weren't. "You wouldn't understand. You've never had to-" She pulled against his grip, felt his fingers tighten. "Let go of me."

"Not until you explain." He leaned closer, his bare chest inches from her face. She could smell him-sleep and sex and that underlying scent that was simply Jasper, simply home, simply everything she'd lost. "Explain how a mother can be so cold. So calculating. Did you even love him? Did you love Elek, or was he just a step up from-"

"Don't." The word cracked. She felt her control slipping, felt the mask cracking, and she couldn't afford to break, not here, not in front of him, not when he could use her tears as evidence of some crime she hadn't committed. "Don't say his name."

"Elek." Jasper said it deliberately, watching her face. "My brother. Your husband. The man you-"

"I said don't!" She jerked free, stumbled backward, caught herself on the dresser. Her reflection stared back at her-pale, wild-eyed, a stranger. "You don't know anything. You don't know what I-" She stopped. Swallowed. The truth was there, on her tongue, burning: You don't know that I loved you. You don't know that I left you. You don't know that Ansel is-

"You're right." Jasper's voice had gone soft. Dangerous. "I don't know you. I don't want to know you." He turned away, found his robe, pulled it on with sharp, angry movements. "But I know what you are. A woman who'd sell anything for security. Who'd marry a man she didn't love because he had the right last name. Who'd let her husband die and not shed a tear-"

Denice grabbed her bag. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely close the clasp. She didn't look at him. She couldn't. If she looked, she'd break. If she broke, she'd tell him everything, and telling him would destroy them both.

She reached the door, her fingers finding the brass handle. Behind her, Jasper was silent. She could feel his eyes on her back, could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on her shoulders.

"Make sure the money gets to the hospital," she said. Her voice was steady. She didn't recognize it. "On time. Every week. That's your part of the bargain."

She opened the door. Stepped through. Closed it behind her with a click that sounded like a period at the end of a sentence.

The hallway was empty. She made it to the stairs, to the foyer, to the front door before her legs gave out. She caught herself on the stone wall, sliding down until she sat on the cold steps, her bag clutched to her chest.

The sob came then, violent and silent, tearing through her chest without sound. She pressed her fist against her mouth, bit down, tasted blood again. She couldn't cry here. Couldn't be found by staff, by Bea, by anyone who might report back to him.

The street was entirely empty, leaving her completely alone with the biting cold and the crushing weight of her reality. Denice wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing mascara across her cheek. She stood, pulling her thin, damp coat tighter around her shivering frame, straightened her spine, and walked to the bus stop with her head high.

The Q32 came at 7:15. She climbed aboard, dropped her last two dollars into the fare box, and found a seat by the window. The city blurred past-Queens, not Manhattan, the buildings lower and grayer, the sidewalks crowded with people who had nowhere else to be at seven in the morning.

She thought of Ansel, of the cells in his blood, of the child that might or might not be growing in her womb. She thought of Jasper's scar, of his hands, of the way he'd looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching.

The bus turned onto Roosevelt Avenue. Denice closed her eyes and prayed-not to God, who'd never answered, but to biology, to chance, to whatever cruel mechanism had brought her here.

Let me be pregnant. Let this work. Let me save him.