Chapter 2 - THE BUS TICKET IN HER COAT
"How did you pay?"
Roman Bellandi stood beside the bedroom window, his expression unreadable.
I had spent nearly four months imagining what would happen when my husband discovered I was pregnant.
I had imagined anger.
Accusations.
Perhaps the cold, controlled voice he used when someone disappointed him.
I had never imagined the question that frightened him most would be about a medical bill.
"Cash," I answered.
"Every appointment?"
"Yes."
"Did anyone go with you?"
"No."
Roman closed his eyes.
For a moment, he looked less like the man who controlled half the trucking contracts in North Jersey and more like someone who had just learned a terrible thing.
"Claire, where did the money come from?"
"My savings."
"The account I opened for you?"
"No. Money I saved before we married."
He turned away.
I watched his reflection in the dark window.
"Are you angry because I used my own money?"
"No."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
"Because someone knew."
Those three words made my skin go cold.
Roman crossed the room and opened the bedroom door.
"Marco."
His security chief appeared immediately.
"Find out who accessed Claire's appointment records. Nobody contacts the clinic until I say so."
Marco nodded.
Then his eyes moved toward me.
For the briefest second, I saw something strange in his expression.
Recognition.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Roman noticed it too.
"Something you want to tell me?"
Marco looked at his boss.
"No."
"Then get started."
The door closed.
I remained beside the bed, my hands resting protectively over my stomach.
"Roman, you're scaring me."
He looked at me.
"Good. Then maybe you'll understand why you should have told me."
Something inside me snapped.
"Understand what?"
"That you can't disappear for four months and expect—"
"I didn't disappear!"
My voice rose before I could stop it.
"I went to a doctor. I bought prenatal vitamins. I sat in waiting rooms full of women whose husbands held their hands."
Roman went still.
"Every Thursday," I continued, "I watched other women show their ultrasound pictures to someone who actually wanted to see them."
His jaw tightened.
"And I went home and hid mine."
Silence.
"Because you told me there was no place for children in your life."
Roman looked toward the floor.
"I remember."
"Then don't stand there and act surprised that I believed you."
He said nothing.
That hurt almost as much as his old words.
I crossed the room and opened the closet.
My suitcase was behind three winter coats.
I pulled it into the light.
Roman stared at it.
"What is that?"
"My answer."
I set the suitcase on the bed.
Inside were maternity clothes, my nursing license, an envelope of cash, and a photograph of my late mother.
Roman reached toward the envelope.
I stopped him.
"Don't."
He withdrew his hand.
"When were you leaving?"
"At twenty weeks."
"Where?"
"Somewhere you couldn't decide what I was allowed to do."
His face changed.
Not with rage.
With something painfully close to understanding.
"You thought I'd hurt the baby?"
I swallowed.
"I didn't know what you'd do."
Roman took one step backward.
I'd seen men tremble when he raised his voice.
But I'd never seen Roman Bellandi look wounded.
Not until that moment.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
For a long time, he stared at the suitcase.
"When I was nine," he said quietly, "my mother was pregnant."
I stopped breathing.
Roman had never spoken about his childhood.
Not once in two years.
"My father had enemies. Someone found out about the baby."
He rubbed his hands together.
"They sent a message."
"What kind of message?"
Roman looked up.
"They told my father that anything he loved could be taken away."
My heart tightened.
"What happened?"
"My father thought he could protect everyone."
Roman swallowed.
"He was wrong."
I waited.
But Roman stood suddenly.
"That's why I said there was no place for children."
"Because you were afraid?"
"Because fear doesn't stop people from dying."
He approached me slowly.
"I won't ask you to forgive what I said. But I need you to understand something."
"What?"
"I never meant that I wouldn't want our child."
Tears stung my eyes.
"Then what did you mean?"
"That I didn't trust my world to let us keep one."
Before I could answer, footsteps hurried down the hallway.
Marco opened the door without waiting.
Roman turned sharply.
"What?"
"We found something in the garage."
Marco held a small plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a black electronic device no larger than a matchbox.
"It was attached beneath the second SUV."
Roman's expression hardened.
"A tracker?"
"Not exactly."
Marco hesitated.
"It was connected to the vehicle's electrical system."
My stomach tightened.
Roman's voice lowered.
"Explain."
"It could have interrupted the engine remotely."
"When?"
"At a location chosen by whoever activated it."
Roman looked at me.
"The convoy was supposed to leave through the eastern road," Marco continued. "There's a narrow bridge about six miles out."
The room seemed to tilt.
Eight armed men.
Three black SUVs.
A convoy that had almost carried me and my unborn child into the darkness.
Roman looked toward Marco.
"Who knew our route?"
"Six people."
"Names."
Marco hesitated.
"Your driver. Me. Four security officers."
"Anyone else?"
Marco said nothing.
Roman stepped closer.
"Marco."
"Your father-in-law called the security office this afternoon."
My blood ran cold.
"My father?"
"He asked whether Mrs. Bellandi would be traveling tonight."
I gripped the edge of the dresser.
"My father hasn't called me in three months."
Roman studied Marco.
"Why wasn't I told?"
"Because he said he was checking on his daughter."
Roman's voice became frighteningly quiet.
"Get me the records."
Marco left.
I turned toward my suitcase.
And suddenly remembered something.
Three days earlier, my father had mailed me an old wool coat.
It had belonged to my mother.
There was no note.
Only a small envelope tucked into the pocket.
I had assumed it contained a forgotten photograph.
I pulled the coat from the closet.
Roman watched as I reached into the lining.
My fingers touched paper.
I withdrew a folded bus ticket.
Pittsburgh.
Departure date: two weeks away.
My planned escape date.
But I had never bought a ticket.
Someone else had.
On the back, written in my father's unmistakable handwriting, were six words.
DON'T GET ON THE FIRST BUS.
Roman took the ticket carefully.
Then he turned it over.
Beneath my father's warning was a second message.
May you like
One that made Roman's face drain of color.
ASK ROMAN WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS MOTHER'S BABY.
