After His Mistress Framed Me for Killing Her Baby

Raiden bent down. Picked up the iron rod.

Three feet of solid metal. Heavy. The kind of thing you use to break concrete. Or bones.

I stopped breathing.

"Last chance," he said. His voice was flat. Empty. "Confess."

"I didn't do anything!" My voice cracked. Broke. "Raiden, please, whoever's in that bag—"

"Made their choice." He turned toward the duffel. "Just like you made yours."

The rod came down.

The sound was wrong. Wet and heavy and final. The bag jerked. A muffled cry came from inside.

"No!" I lunged forward. Victor's hands locked around my arms. Dragged me back. "Stop! Raiden, stop!"

He hit it again.

I screamed. Fought Victor's grip. My nails tore at his skin. Drew blood. He didn't let go.

Raiden raised the rod a third time. Brought it down with both hands. The bag shuddered. The sound inside it changed. Got quieter. Weaker.

"Please," I sobbed. "Please, I'm begging you—"

Again. The rod connected with a crack that echoed through the warehouse. Again. Again. Methodical. Precise. Like he was hammering fence posts. Like it was just work.

I couldn't look away. Couldn't close my eyes. Couldn't do anything but watch my husband beat a child to death in front of me.

The bag stopped moving.

Raiden stepped back. The rod slipped from his hands. Hit the concrete with a clang that made me flinch.

He was breathing hard. His white shirt was spattered with dark drops. His hands were shaking.

"Open it," he said.

Victor let me go. I collapsed. Hit the floor on my knees. Pain shot through my legs. I didn't feel it.

Victor walked to the bag. His face was gray. His hands fumbled with the zipper.

The sound of it opening was the loudest thing I'd ever heard.

He pulled the edges apart. Stepped back fast.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't make my body work.

Then I saw.

A child's face. Small. Still. Blood in his dark hair. Dark hair like mine. Eyes closed. Mouth slightly open.

Thomas.

My son.

Our son.

The scream that came out of me wasn't human. It was something animal and broken and wrong. I crawled forward. My hands slipped in something wet on the concrete. I didn't care.

I pulled him out of the bag. His body was so small. So light. Still warm.

"Thomas," I sobbed. "Baby, no, please, wake up, wake up—"

I pressed my face against his hair. It smelled like the lavender shampoo Nora used. Like home. Like safety. Like everything I'd tried to give him.

His chest didn't move.

I rocked him. Held him against me. His blood soaked through my shirt. Warm and wet and wrong.

"Lilliana." Raiden's voice came from somewhere behind me. Confused. Sharp. "What did you call him?"

I couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. Just held my son and made sounds that weren't words.

"Lilliana!" Louder now. Closer. "Who is that child?"

I looked up. My husband stood three feet away. The man who'd just beaten our son to death with an iron rod. Blood on his hands. Blood on his shirt. Thomas's blood.

"His name," I whispered, "was Thomas Payne."

Raiden went white. Actually white. Like someone had drained all the blood from his face.

"That's not—" He stopped. Stared at the small body in my arms. "You're lying."

"He's four years old." My voice was flat. Dead. "I gave birth to him in Boston. Hid him to keep him safe from your world. From this." I pressed my thumb against Thomas's wrist. No pulse. Just cold skin and absence. "I was going to tell you. On our anniversary. I had a plan."

The rod clattered against the floor. Raiden had kicked it. Or dropped it. I didn't know.

"No," he said. "No, you're—this is another lie, you're trying to—"

"Look at him." I turned Thomas's face toward the light. "Look at his eyes. His mouth. He has your chin, Raiden. I used to trace it with my finger when he slept."

Raiden staggered backward. Hit the wall. His legs gave out. He slid down it. Sat there on the concrete with his hands in his hair.

"I didn't know," he whispered. "I didn't—"

"You didn't ask." I stood. My legs shook. Everything shook. "You just believed her. Believed Estella over me. And now he's dead."

I walked toward the door. Victor unlocked it without being told. His hands were shaking worse than mine.

Behind me, Raiden made a sound. Low and broken and inhuman.

I didn't look back.

I carried my son out into the night. The air was cold. Or I was cold. I couldn't tell anymore.

Thomas's head rested against my shoulder. Like he was sleeping. Like I was just carrying him to bed after he'd fallen asleep in the car.

But he wasn't sleeping.

And I would never carry him to bed again.

I pressed my lips against his hair. Whispered against his skin. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. Mommy's sorry."

He didn't answer.

He would never answer again.