The smart thing to do would be to stop by the drug store and buy a pregnancy test. At least then I’ll know what I’m dealing with. Chances are this missed period is just a temporary manifestation of stress or diet.
Not allowing myself to take the thought any further, I gather the file, shove everything into my laptop case, and head for the door.
*
Forty-five minutes later, I arrive at the farm and let myself in through the back door. Tomasetti left the light above the stove on for me, which tells me he’s already gone to bed. I cross the kitchen and see he left a note next to the coffeemaker. Hi, guy. Next to the note is a foil-wrapped chocolate Kiss. It’s a silly thing, but it warms the cold knot of fear in my gut. It gives me hope that everything is going to be all right, no matter what the outcome of the test.
I go to the guest bedroom I’ve set up as an office and set down my laptop case. Kneeling, I dig inside and pull out the pregnancy kit. I feel like a teenager sneaking a pack of cigarettes into the bathroom as I tuck the box into my shirt and take it to the half bath downstairs. It takes me several minutes to figure out how to use it. I spent a couple of extra dollars for the digital kind. It’s pretty much idiotproof, and the results only take two minutes.
I take the test and set the stick on the counter next to the sink. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror as I wash my hands. A pale, worried-looking woman stares back at me. “You’re not pregnant,” I tell her firmly. “It’s just stress. Crazy schedule. You need a vacation.”
But I can’t ignore the butterflies fluttering in my stomach or the way my mouth has gone dry. I don’t want to look down at that tiny oval window.
I force my gaze to the test stick. I’m expecting relief. A moment I’ll share with Tomasetti later and we’ll laugh our asses off. The floor seems to drop beneath my feet, when, instead, I find myself staring down at that little oval window and the word PREGNANT stares back.
CHAPTER 10
I arrive at the station a few minutes after seven. I managed to avoid Tomasetti this morning, getting into the shower while he made coffee and then rushing out the door while he showered. He’s probably wondering why I didn’t at least touch base with him before I left, but there’s no way I could look him in the eye without his knowing something’s wrong.
I’m usually pretty good at compartmentalizing my life, doing my job without letting personal matters interfere. But I didn’t sleep much last night. The reality of what I’ve let happen is like a hammer, pounding incessantly against my brain. This morning, I’m sick with worry. I don’t know if my jittery stomach is from the pregnancy or the raw nerves that came with confirmation of it.
“Morning, Chief.”
I enter through the front door to see Mona standing at the dispatch station with her headset on. The Black Keys belt out “Tighten Up” a little too loudly. I’m inordinately glad for the normalcy of the moment. A sense of stability and control washes over me, and I’m reminded that the world, that my position as chief of police, is much larger than my own problems. Women have been having babies since the beginning of time. I’ll get through this. Tomasetti and I will deal with it. For now, I have to set it aside and concentrate on my job.
“Hey, Mona.” Feeling calmer, I cross to the dispatch station and pluck pink slips from my message slot.
I scan them as I walk to the coffee station. Most are from media outlets wanting an update on the remains. There are two from Vern Nolt, the father of Leroy Nolt and the only family member with a missing loved one with whom I haven’t yet spoken. Anxious to talk with him, I fill a mug with coffee, unlock my office, and slide behind my desk. While my computer boots, I make the call.
“This is Vern Nolt.” The voice on the other end of the line has the froggy, slightly shaky quality of an old man.
Before I’ve finished identifying myself, he interjects, “Did you find my son? Did you find Leroy?”
“I don’t know,” I say quickly, not wanting to get his hopes up only to crush them if the identification process doesn’t pan out. “Mr. Nolt, there were some human remains discovered here in Painters Mill. I’m talking with all the families in the area who’ve reported family members missing. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you have a moment.”
“Of course I do.”
I pull out my notes on the missing men from Holmes County and begin by verifying some basic information: name, age, the date of his disappearance. And then, “Mr. Nolt, do you know if your son ever had a broken arm?”
A quick intake of breath hisses over the line. Then the sound of a palm placed over the handset. He doesn’t respond immediately, so I give him a moment. “Mr. Nolt?”
“Leroy worked at Quality Implement for a couple of years,” he tells me. “There was a forklift accident. Pallet tipped over and a huge auger fell on him, broke his right arm nearly in half.”