“Yeah, have a good day, kid.”
I wait in the front until they all get on the bus. Then I head straight to Rory and Raymond’s room. They’re twins, but from the looks of their room, you wouldn’t think they were even related. The top bunk—Raymond’s—is neatly made with hospital corners; the bottom is a ball of blankets, crushed pillows, and mangled sheets. One desk is a disaster area covered in papers, video-game controllers, empty soda cans. The other desk is just-dusted shiny and clean—save for the closed silver MacBook Pro laptop sitting dead center.
I’m sure some parents would feel guilty about invading their kid’s private space, but I’m not one of them. Kids can have privacy when they move out.
I fire up the laptop and open Raymond’s recent search history. What I read makes my stomach hit the floor.
“Shit.”
****
That afternoon, I come home early so I can talk to Raymond before he slides any deeper into his black hole of anxiety. Chelsea is pleasantly surprised. I get a nice, wet kiss when I walk into the kitchen—with tongue. Her hands comb over my shoulders, and her eyes are shiny and teasing. “Wow, I almost don’t recognize you in the daylight.”
I place my palm on her protruding belly and rub it hello. “I’m the guy who knocked you up—in case you weren’t sure.”
She smiles against my lips when I pull her in for another kiss.
Ronan abandons his crayons on the kitchen table and runs into the living room, squealing, “Regan, give me my turn on the Wii or I’m gonna knock you up!”
Why do kids only hear the things you don’t want them to? Every fucking time.
Chelsea hides her face against my chest. “That phrase is going to go over well in kindergarten tomorrow.”
My hand glides down her back. “I’ll talk to him. But first I want to talk to Raymond—where is he?”
“He’s in the back, shooting hoops. Anything I should know about?”
Worries are contagious—they spread from one person to another like a virus. That’s the last thing she needs right now.
“No—it’s a guy thing.”
She pauses, reading my face—then shrugs. “Okay. Have fun with that.”
I head out the back French doors and walk down the path to join Raymond on the blacktop, where he dribbles a basketball.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” I hold up my hands and he passes me the ball. I bounce it twice, then smoothly shoot it through the hoop.
“What’s up?” I ask him as he retrieves the ball.
He shoots, misses. “Nothing.”
Raymond shoots again, and I catch the ball after it falls through the net. “You know you can talk to me, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” he answers automatically.
“About anything. Nothing you say would ever change what I think of you. Understand?”
During my years as a pissed-off, defensive little punk, the Judge probably said those same words to me a dozen times. My mother—probably a hundred. But I never got it.
Now I do.
Because there really is nothing any of these kids could ever say or do—no outrage too great, no mistake too stupid—that would make me stop loving them with every fiber of my being.
Raymond answers cautiously, his blue eyes squinting behind his round, black-wire frames. “You’re being really weird, Jake.”
“I saw the search history on your computer, Raymond.”
I pass the ball to him quickly. He catches it with two hands and stares at me.
“You did?”
“Yeah.” I lift my chin toward the bench. “Sit down.”
Raymond sits down on the bench, the ball in his lap, watching me as I take up the rest of the bench beside him. “You looked on my computer?”
I nod. “Feel free to be indignant about that later, but right now, I want to talk about the things you’re looking up—why you’re so anxious, not sleeping.” I lean over, bracing my elbows on my spread knees. “What’s going on with you, buddy?”
His throat ripples as he swallows. Then he looks away and his voice is hushed, like he’s afraid to say the words too loudly. “Did you know, the number one cause of death for pregnant women is murder?”
I do know that. Just one of the fun fucking facts criminal defense attorneys get to know. A woman is never more vulnerable—in every conceivable way—than when she’s carrying a child.
Raymond doesn’t wait for me to answer. “But one thousand ninety-five women died last year—in childbirth. Healthy women. And that’s not counting the thousands who died from pregnancy-related complications.”
“Raymond—”
“Diabetes, hypertension, blood clots—all kinds of things can go wrong.”
“Raymond—”
“Placenta abruption, infection, hemorrhaging—a human being can bleed out in under one hundred and twenty seconds. Sometimes—”
“Raymond, stop.” My voice snaps the air, like the crack of a whip.
He blinks at me, his pale lips going still. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “None of those things are going to happen to your aunt.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m not going to let them happen.”
He shakes his head slowly. “You can’t protect her from it.”