Chapter 3

The next morning, Matthew packed his things and said to me:

"Sarah, get ready. We're heading out this afternoon."

"Where to?"

"Out of town. Need to check a shipment. Thought I'd take you along for some fresh air."

His voice was soft, gentle. I said okay.

That afternoon, Matthew came to pick me up. He was driving himself. The passenger seat was empty. I opened the door, sat down, and buckled up.

Through the rearview mirror, I saw Ruth's car following behind us, two car lengths back.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Ruth. She brokered the deal on that shipment. She needs to be there."

"Mm."

The car left the city and wound up the mountain road. The trees grew thicker on both sides. The air outside the window shifted from the city's haze to the damp cool of the woods. Matthew kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to squeeze my fingers before pulling back.

At a clearing halfway up the mountain, Matthew parked. He said he needed to go into the woods to inspect the goods and told me to look around nearby.

"Don't go far," he said over his shoulder.

"Okay."

He took Ruth and two of his men into the trees. I stood there watching his back disappear into the shadows, then walked about a dozen paces in the opposite direction, leaned against a tree trunk, and pulled out my phone to answer work emails.

About ten minutes later, the wind carried voices toward me—Ruth's Sicilian, fast and urgent.

I gripped my phone, my fingers freezing over the screen. I shouldn't have listened. But the words came through the air, one by one, straight into my ears.

"—the baby. Three months. Yours, Don."

Then Matthew's voice, lower than usual, like someone had just grabbed him by the throat: "What did you say?"

Ruth went on, her pitch rising, her voice cracking, the last few words almost a sob: "I had no one else to tell... It's yours, Don, I'm not lying..."

Matthew was silent for a long time.

I couldn't make out the rest. Their voices blurred together. But I'd heard enough.

Baby. Three months. Yours.

I stood there, phone in hand.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. When I finally came to, my feet were already moving. Walking back. Toward the car. My mind was blank—I just knew I needed to get away. The slope was steep, the ground still soft from last night's rain. Each step sank half an inch into the mud. I walked too fast, not looking where I stepped.

My foot landed on a loose rock. The rock gave way.

I pitched forward. My right ankle twisted. My knee slammed into a jagged outcrop. I slid three or four meters down the slope before my back hit a tree trunk and stopped me.

When I finally stilled, the sky spun a full circle above me.

I pushed up on my elbows, trying to sit. A dull, unfamiliar ache spread from deep in my belly, heavy and pulling. Like something inside had come unlatched. A warmth seeped out from somewhere deep.

I looked down. I couldn't see anything. But I could feel it.

I pulled out my phone and called Matthew.

It rang for a long time before he picked up. In the background, I heard wind and Ruth saying something.

"Sarah?" His voice carried that rushed, interrupted edge.

"I fell," I said. "I'm bleeding. My stomach—"

I started to say the baby, but Ruth cut me off.

"Don, what do I do?" She was crying on the other end. Matthew seemed too distracted to listen. He brushed me off. "Wait, I'll send someone over right away."

Then he hung up.

I sat against the tree trunk for a while. The ache in my belly came in waves, growing closer together.

I couldn't lose my child.

I waited five minutes. He didn't come.

I dialed emergency services.

The dispatcher asked for my location. I couldn't name it. I bit my lip, thought for a second, and gave her the signpost number next to the yellow tower on the downhill road. I told her there was a car parked in the clearing above, and I was on the path below the slope. She said they'd send a unit right away and told me to stay still and stay awake.

I hung up and held the phone in my hand. My palm was slick with sweat, so wet I could barely keep hold of it.

Another ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The ache in my belly shifted from a dull pull to a sharp, wrenching pain. Every breath felt like a thread being yanked out from inside me. I stared at the entrance to the woods, stared until my eyes burned.

No one came.

At the thirty-minute mark, sirens sounded in the distance, climbing from the foot of the mountain. The sound grew closer and louder, like a rope being pulled up from below. I heard car doors open and slam shut. Voices shouting. Footsteps crunching on gravel.

When the stretcher came down the slope, I saw two paramedics in fluorescent vests. They crouched beside me. One put an oxygen mask over my face. Another cut open my pant leg. One of them asked, "Anyone else with you? Are you alone?"

I opened my mouth and glanced toward the woods.

"Alone," I said.

In the end, I never waited for him to show.