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CHAPTER 32
publish date:
2026-11-02 20:21:01
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Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 32
It takes Priya four days.I mail one of the bottles under the name Anna Lane, overnight, sealed in three layers of bubble wrap and a box that Marisol swears she wrapped with āthe intensity of a woman defusing a bomb.ā Then I wait. I take blood pressures. I vomit quietly into the clinic sink. I smile at Lucia when she comes in for her thirteen-week check, and I hold her hand while we listen to her babyās heartbeat, and I donāt cry until Iām alone.On Thursday night, at a quarter past eleven, my prepaid phone rings.Iām sitting on the edge of my bed in the dark, shoes off, my hand on my stomach. Iāve been in this position for an hour. I donāt remember deciding to.āDr. Vance.ā Priyaās voice is low and tight. āAre you alone?āāYes.āāSit down.āāIām already sitting.āāThen hold on to something.āI grip the edge of the mattress.āI ran it twice,ā she says. āI ran it a third time, because I didnāt believe the first two. Same compound as the original. The anti-progestin. Same carrier, same
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 31
The package arrives on a Friday, in the middle of a fever.Not mine. A little boyās, three years old, flushed and whimpering in his motherās lap in Exam Room Two. Iām holding a thermometer and murmuring nonsense when Marisol appears at the door with a cardboard box balanced on one hip.āCourier,ā she says. āSignature required. I signed for you.āāPut it on my desk.āāItās heavy.āāMarisol. Iām busy.āāItās from your mother.āThe thermometer slips from my fingers.The little boy howls. His mother soothes him, shushing, and I bend down automatically to pick it up, and my hands are shaking so hard I miss it twice. When I straighten, Marisol is still standing in the doorway with her head tilted.āIāll finish here,ā she says quietly. āGo.āI find the box on my desk in the back office. Itās plain brown cardboard, no larger than a shoebox, wrapped in careful twine. The return label is printed in a hand I would know anywhere, neat and slanting, the loops of a woman trained since childhood to
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 30
The man on the clinic steps is holding a thermos.I see him from the end of the block on Wednesday at noon, on my way back from the pharmacy. A tall figure in a soft gray sweater, sitting on the second step with his elbows on his knees and a canvas bag at his feet. Sunlight catches his hair, a dark gold, a little too long. He looks like a man waiting for a bus that stopped running years ago.Then he lifts his head, and I stop walking.āVictor?āHe rises at once, and a smile breaks across his face so warm and so genuinely delighted that something in my chest loosens before I can stop it.āSerena.ā His voice is low and a little rough, the way I remember. āI hoped Iād catch you. I didnāt want to come in and frighten everyone.āVictor Hartwell.Damienās cousin. Thirty-four years old, with Edward Hartwellās jaw and none of his coldness. He was always at the edges of that house when I lived in it. At Christmas dinners, at board retreats, standing by the fireplace with a glass of club soda,
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 29
I find him on a ladder.Heās two stories up at the side of the boarding house, wrestling a rusted gutter with a wrench, while Mrs. Ortega stands below with both hands braced on the rungs. A man mending a roof in the morning sun.Iām furious with him for looking so peaceful.āDamien.āHe glances down. For a second his whole face opens, bright and startled, as though somebody switched on a light behind it. Then he sees my expression, and it closes like a door.āSerena?āāCome down.āHe descends so quickly he nearly misses the last rung. Mrs. Ortega, with remarkable tact, finds an urgent reason to go inside.I donāt know when I picked up the envelope. Somewhere between the supply closet and the street it ended up in my fist, crushed at the corners. I hold it up between us.āTen million dollars,ā I say. My voice is shaking. āThatās the price of your child, apparently. Your mother brought it herself. She says hello.āHe goes white.The color drains out of him in a single pull, from forehea
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 28
There is nowhere for Eleanor Hartwell to sit.The supply closet holds one metal stool, one desk, and a wall of boxes labeled NITRILE GLOVES (M). She lowers herself onto a stack of cotton swab cartons with her spine perfectly straight and her ankles crossed. It should be funny. It isnāt.I take the stool. I set my phone on the desk between us and press the button.10:00.Eleanor folds her hands. Theyāre very white against the gray wool, and the knuckles are swollen at the joints, something Iāve never noticed.āI said I would tell you only true things,ā she says. āSo Iāll begin with one. I wronged you.āThe words are so unexpected that for a moment I think I misheard.āI put a contract in front of my son the day before your wedding, and I let him sign it. I watched you stand at that altar and I said nothing.ā Her voice is cool and even, but a muscle in her jaw is working. āI told myself it was practical. But I knew it was a cruelty, and I did it anyway.āI stare at her.Itās the nearest
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 27
I donāt sleep after the fountain.I lie awake with the card on my pillow and a sentence looping behind my eyes. There was someone in the bed beside me. He said her name. He said Bianca in that bright little square, and something Iād been holding together with both hands finally slipped.Iām still not sure whether I believe him. I only know that by Monday morning I have decided to stop thinking about it, which lasts until eight-fifteen.Thatās when the glass door of the clinic swings open, and every conversation in the waiting room dies.It happens all at once, like a record stopped by a hand. A toddler stops mid-wail. Even the ceiling fan seems to slow.Iām at the front desk with Marisol, checking charts, and I look up.My blood goes cold.She stands just inside the door, perfectly upright, in a gray wool coat that probably cost more than the clinicās annual budget. Silver hair pinned flawlessly at the nape. A triple strand of pearls at her throat. Black leather gloves, which she is r
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