He Chose Her Over Our Dead Child

The world was a blur of white and black. The snow was falling so hard it erased the horizon. Deidre lay curled at the base of the headstone, her body temperature dropping, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

A beam of yellow light cut through the storm. Dwayne Boggs, the cemetery groundskeeper, trudged through the knee-deep snow, his flashlight sweeping the graves. His dog, a thick-coated German Shepherd, was pulling hard on the leash, barking frantically toward the hill.

"Whoa, whoa!" Dwayne yelled over the wind. He followed the dog, his boots crunching loudly. The flashlight beam landed on a patch of black against the white snow.

Dwayne rushed forward, dropping to his knees. He brushed the snow off Deidre's face. Her lips were blue, her skin like ice. Her chest barely moved.

"Jesus Christ," Dwayne muttered. He unzipped his heavy military-green coat and wrapped it around her. He pulled his radio off his belt. "Dispatch, this is Boggs. I need an ambulance at sector four. I have a woman, hypothermic, unresponsive."

Static. Nothing but the howling wind.

"The storm knocked out the towers," Dwayne realized, panic rising. He needed help now. He patted her pockets, looking for a phone. He found her clutch in the snow. He flipped it open. It was a high-end smartphone, still showing a sliver of battery.

He pressed her cold finger to the sensor. It buzzed in rejection, the screen flashing red. He cursed under his breath, taking her freezing fingertip and rubbing it vigorously with his own thumb, trying to force some warmth back into the deadened skin. He pressed it down a second time. Another failure. On the third try, the phone finally unlocked. The wallpaper was a photo of a dark-haired man. The call log had one number at the top, labeled simply "Danial."

Dwayne hit dial. He pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the rings. One. Two. Three. Miles away, in the master bedroom of the Tribeca penthouse, Daria glanced at the phone buzzing on the nightstand beside the deeply sleeping Danial. Seeing the caller ID, she smirked, sliding her manicured finger across the glass to intercept the call.

"Hello?" A woman's voice answered. It was low, husky, and dripping with annoyance. It wasn't the voice of a man.

"Who is this?" Dwayne asked, confused. "I'm calling from the Westchester cemetery. I found a woman unconscious in the snow. The phone says to call this number. She needs an ambulance, but the roads are blocked. I need a snowmobile or a chopper."

There was a pause on the line. Daria sat up in Danial's bed, watching the bathroom door where the shower was running. A slow, cruel smile spread across her face.

"Is she dying?" Daria asked, her voice flat.

Dwayne was taken aback by the question. "She's in bad shape. Are you family? I need to know what to do."

"I'm her family," Daria said smoothly. "Listen to me carefully. Don't call an ambulance. They'll never make it in time, and the cold will kill her before they do. I have a medical team on standby in the city. Bring her to Manhattan."

Daria rattled off an address in Tribeca. "Use the cemetery's snowcat. Bring her directly to the underground garage. Do you understand?"

Dwayne hesitated. It sounded insane. Why not a hospital? But the woman on the phone sounded authoritative, and the snow was falling harder. He had no other options.

"Okay," Dwayne agreed. "I'm bringing her down."

Twenty minutes later, the heavy, tracked snowcat rumbled into an underground parking garage in Tribeca. Dwayne jumped out, carrying Deidre in his arms. A woman in a dark coat was waiting, flanked by two large men.

"Put her down," the woman ordered. It was Daria. She looked completely different from the vulnerable pregnant woman at the restaurant. She was sharp, cold, and commanding.

Dwayne laid Deidre on a gurney that had been rolled out. One of the men handed him a thick envelope. Dwayne opened it. It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.

"Take your vehicle and go," Daria said. "Forget you ever saw us."

Dwayne looked at the money, then at the unconscious woman. Something felt deeply wrong, but he was just a groundskeeper. He wasn't a hero. He took the money and walked away.

Deidre was loaded into a private elevator. It shot up to the penthouse floor. She was carried into a lavish apartment and dumped unceremoniously on a white leather sofa.

The warmth of the apartment was suffocating. Deidre's body began to thaw, the pain returning in agonizing waves. Her eyelids fluttered. She forced her eyes open, her vision swimming.

She saw a crystal chandelier above her. She tried to sit up, but a sharp, tearing pain in her chest forced her back down. Her throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of high heels on hardwood floors echoed through the room. Daria walked into Deidre's line of sight. She was holding a glass of red wine, looking down at Deidre with an expression of pure disgust.

Deidre's eyes widened. She recognized the apartment. It was Daria's. She tried to scramble backward, her muscles screaming in protest, but she was too weak.

Daria laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. She kicked Deidre's hand, which was hanging limply off the sofa. "Look at you. You look like a frozen rat."

Deidre bit her tongue, tasting blood. She forced herself to focus. "Where is Danial?" she rasped.

Daria walked over to a sleek bar cabinet and poured herself more wine. "Danial? Oh, he's sleeping like a baby." She pointed to a closed door down the hallway. "Right in that bedroom."

Deidre shook her head in disbelief. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Daria picked up a remote from the coffee table and clicked it. A large screen on the wall flickered to life. It showed a live feed of a bedroom. Danial was lying on the bed, shirtless, fast asleep.

The image was a knife to Deidre's heart. She gripped the edge of the sofa, her nails tearing into the leather. He was here. He was in the next room, Every day, he sleeps with his mistress like this, while his wife lay dying on the floor.

Daria walked over, her heels clicking deliberately. She crouched down until she was eye-level with Deidre. Her eyes were glittering with malice.

"You know, Deidre," Daria whispered, her voice soft and deadly, "tonight is a very special night. It's the perfect time to clear the air. To talk about some old secrets."

Deidre stared into Daria's eyes. A chill that had nothing to do with the snow swept over her. She was trapped in the lion's den, and the lion was ready to play.