His Mistress Killed Our Baby

The door opened.

I didn't turn my head. I knew his footsteps. I'd been listening to them walk away from me for five years.

Lennox stopped at the foot of the hospital bed. I could see him in my peripheral vision, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He didn't come closer.

"So," he said. "Pregnant."

I stared at the ceiling tiles. There was a water stain in the corner shaped like a comma.

"When were you planning to tell me?" His voice had that edge I knew too well. Not quite anger. Something colder. "Or were you just going to let me find out when you started showing?"

I didn't answer.

He moved around the side of the bed, into my line of sight. His shirt was wrinkled. His tie was gone. He looked like he'd been out all night.

Maybe he had been.

"The nurse said you fell down the stairs." He crossed his arms. "That's convenient."

I turned my head on the pillow to look at him. My neck ached.

"Convenient," I repeated. My voice came out hoarse.

"You show up here. Suddenly you're pregnant. Suddenly there's a fall, and now—" He gestured vaguely at the room, at the IV line, at me. "Now I'm supposed to feel guilty. Is that it?"

I blinked.

"There's no baby anymore, Lennox."

His expression didn't change. "I heard."

Silence stretched between us. Somewhere down the hall, a machine beeped steadily. On and on.

"Here's what I think," he said finally. "I think you made this whole thing up. I think you wanted to trap me, and when that didn't work, you staged this—" He waved his hand again. "This whole scene to make me look like the bad guy."

I stared at him.

"There's no way that baby was mine," he continued. His voice was flat now. Matter-of-fact. "We haven't slept together in eight months. So either you're lying, or you've been fucking someone else."

I felt nothing. That was the strangest part. I thought I would feel something — anger, grief, anything. But there was just a hollow space where all of that should have been.

My hand was resting on the blanket. The torn ultrasound printout lay beside it, the two halves barely touching.

Lennox saw it. He picked it up.

He looked at it for a moment. Then he tore it again. And again. He let the pieces fall like snow onto the linoleum floor.

"Stop pretending," he said quietly. "It's pathetic."

I watched the pieces scatter. One landed near my hand. I could see part of the date. October. The rest was gone.

I reached for my phone on the bedside table. My fingers were steady. That surprised me.

I unlocked it. Scrolled through my contacts. Found the number I'd saved years ago and never called.

I pressed dial.

Lennox frowned. "What are you doing?"

The line rang once. Twice.

Then a voice answered. Low. Precise.

"Camryn."

"I need help," I said.

Lennox's face changed. He took a step back.

"Where are you?" Kingston Hawkins asked.

"Mount Sinai. Room 847."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

The line went dead.

I set the phone down.

Lennox was staring at me. His face had gone pale.

"You called Kingston," he said. "You actually—"

"Yes."

"Camryn." He moved closer, hands up like he was approaching something dangerous. "Listen to me. You don't want to involve him. He doesn't understand the situation. He'll make this worse."

I tilted my head to the right and looked at him.

"Worse than what?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Fast. Purposeful.

The door slammed open.

Kingston Hawkins filled the doorframe. Six-foot-three in a black overcoat, flanked by two people in suits carrying briefcases. His face was absolutely still.

He didn't look at me.

He looked at Lennox.

Lennox took another step back. "Uncle Kingston. This is a misunderstanding. Camryn is upset, she's not thinking clearly—"

Kingston walked past him like he wasn't there. He stopped at the bedside table and set down a black leather folder.

"You're going to sign these papers," he said. His voice was level. Quiet. It didn't need to be anything else. "And then you're going to get out of her life. Permanently."

Lennox looked at the folder. Then at me.

I was staring at the ceiling again. The water stain. The comma.

"Camryn," Lennox said. "Tell him this isn't what you want."

I said nothing.

One of the suited figures opened the folder and held out a pen.

Kingston didn't move. Didn't repeat himself.

Lennox's hand shook when he took the pen. He flipped through the pages, not reading them. His signature came out jagged. Wrong.

He set the pen down.

"This is a mistake," he said. He was looking at me now. "You're going to regret this."

I turned my head and met his eyes.

"Get out," I whispered.

He stood there for another moment. Then he walked out.

The door closed.

Kingston picked up the folder and handed it to one of his associates. Then he looked at me for the first time.

"Can you walk?"

I nodded.

"Then let's go."

He turned toward the door.

I looked down at the floor. At the torn pieces of the ultrasound scattered across the linoleum.

I didn't pick them up.

I stood, pulled the IV from my arm, and followed Kingston Hawkins out of the room.