Chapter 2 - THE FIRST THURSDAY
Naomi discovered the crackers outside her sister’s apartment at 6:12 the next morning.
Not flowers.
Not diamonds.
Not a velvet jewelry box.
Crackers.
Four boxes.
Saltines.
Whole wheat.
Something with ginger.
And a brand labeled “lightly salted” that looked expensive enough to have been personally blessed by a nutritionist.
Beside them sat two bottles of electrolyte water and a brown paper bag containing apples.
There was no note.
Naomi did not need one.
Claire Bennett stood behind her in pajama pants and stared at the collection.
“Your husband sent emergency crackers.”
“Apparently.”
“Ex-husband?”
“Not yet.”
“Terrifying shipping boss?”
“Yes.”
Claire picked up the ginger box.
“These cost nine dollars.”
Naomi sighed.
“Of course they do.”
Her younger sister grinned.
“Only Adrian Vale could make morning sickness look like a corporate acquisition.”
Naomi carried the groceries inside.
“He is trying.”
Claire’s smile faded slightly.
“You noticed.”
“I noticed the crackers.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Naomi knew.
She placed everything on the kitchen counter.
Yesterday, Adrian would have walked into the apartment.
He had a security code.
He knew Claire’s doorman.
He probably knew the building engineer’s blood type.
Instead, he had left the food outside.
Because Naomi had said she wanted to be alone.
The restraint unsettled her more than intrusion would have.
She had prepared herself to fight the old Adrian.
The new one kept stepping backward whenever she expected him to push.
That made him harder to hate.
Her phone buzzed.
One message.
ADRIAN:
The pharmacist said ginger may help. If you hate it, throw it away.
A second message arrived.
I will not come Thursday unless you tell me I can.
Naomi stared.
Claire leaned over her shoulder.
“Wow.”
“Do not read my messages.”
“I live here.”
“That is not how privacy works.”
“Apparently somebody should tell your husband.”
Naomi gave her a look.
Claire raised both hands.
“Sorry.”
Naomi read Adrian’s message again.
Thursday.
Two o’clock.
The follow-up appointment.
Yesterday, when she gave him the time, she had added one condition.
If I say you can come.
He remembered.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Then she typed:
Come.
She stared at the word.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
You can come.
Deleted that too.
Finally:
2 p.m. Don’t bring six men into the waiting room.
His response arrived twenty seconds later.
Two men.
Naomi frowned.
Another message.
Kidding.
She stared.
Then, despite herself, laughed.
Claire heard.
“That’s dangerous.”
“What?”
“You laughed at him.”
“I laugh at serial killers in documentaries too. It means nothing.”
“Sure.”
Naomi threw a cracker at her.
The next six days were strange.
Adrian did not call twenty times.
He did not send a physician to Claire’s apartment.
He did not move a Vale Maritime vehicle permanently outside the building.
At least not visibly.
He sent one message every morning.
How are you feeling?
Naomi answered honestly twice.
Fine the other four times.
He never challenged her.
That alone felt unnatural.
On Thursday at 1:52, Naomi walked into St. Catherine’s obstetrics department and saw Adrian sitting in the public waiting area.
Alone.
No security chief.
No attorney.
No assistant.
He wore a dark suit and no tie.
One ankle rested over the opposite knee.
A newspaper sat beside him untouched.
He stood the moment he saw her.
His eyes moved quickly over her face.
Then stopped himself before completing the familiar inspection.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You drove?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
Naomi waited.
The old Adrian would have said she should have used the driver.
Instead he nodded.
“All right.”
She almost smiled.
“You hated that.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for not saying it.”
“I’m suffering privately.”
That earned him half a smile.
The nurse called Naomi’s name.
Adrian waited.
He did not assume.
Naomi looked at him.
“You can come.”
He stood.
The appointment was mostly routine.
Blood pressure.
Bloodwork.
Questions.
The physician explained nausea, hydration, prenatal vitamins, foods to avoid.
Adrian took notes.
Actual notes.
On his phone.
Naomi noticed after three minutes.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up.
“Listening.”
“You are typing.”
“I can do both.”
Dr. Warren hid a smile.
Naomi leaned toward him.
“If you create a spreadsheet about pregnancy, I will divorce you twice.”
“I was thinking calendar.”
“Adrian.”
“I’m joking.”
Dr. Warren laughed.
Naomi stared at him.
“When did you become funny?”
“I have always been funny.”
“No.”
His mouth twitched.
The ultrasound showed exactly what the doctor expected.
A tiny embryo.
A heartbeat stronger than the week before.
Adrian watched the screen with the same intensity he once reserved for meetings involving hundreds of millions of dollars.
Naomi watched him instead.
He still gripped the edge of the chair when the heartbeat started.
But this time he breathed.
Afterward, in the hallway, he stopped.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Letting me come.”
Naomi adjusted her handbag.
“You’re the father.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to.”
The distinction mattered.
She nodded.
“You’re welcome.”
They walked toward the elevator.
Adrian pressed the button.
Then his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
Everything in his face changed.
The warmth disappeared.
The man Naomi had married vanished behind the wall she knew too well.
“Who is it?”
“Work.”
Of course.
He rejected the call.
Three seconds later it rang again.
Naomi watched him.
“Answer it.”
“No.”
“Adrian.”
“I’m with you.”
The words should have pleased her.
Instead, they frightened her.
Because Adrian did not ignore repeated calls unless something was very wrong.
The phone rang a third time.
Naomi looked at the screen.
VICTOR.
She knew the name.
Victor Salerno had worked with Adrian’s father.
He controlled Vale Maritime’s South Side terminal operations and had attended their wedding.
He was charming in the way men became charming after learning nobody ever challenged them.
Naomi had never liked him.
“Answer it.”
Adrian’s eyes met hers.
The elevator opened.
Neither entered.
Finally Adrian accepted the call.
“What?”
Victor spoke loudly enough that Naomi heard fragments.
“…Calumet…”
“…container…”
“…two men hurt…”
Adrian’s expression hardened.
“Police?”
Another pause.
“No.”
He looked at Naomi.
“Do not move anything until I get there.”
Naomi’s stomach tightened.
There.
The old pattern.
One call.
One emergency.
One disappearing husband.
Adrian ended the call.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Naomi said,
“Go.”
His face changed.
“I can take you home.”
“I drove.”
“I know.”
“You need to go.”
He didn’t move.
She almost laughed bitterly.
“You spent three years leaving without asking. Now you decide to become hesitant?”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
His eyes dropped briefly toward her stomach.
The answer irritated her.
“Do not make the baby responsible for learning how to stay.”
He looked back at her.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
His jaw tightened.
Naomi softened her voice.
“If work needs you, go.”
“I told you I would be present.”
“Being present does not mean never working.”
That seemed to surprise him.
She continued.
“It means telling me where you’re going.”
His face became unreadable.
“And coming back when you say you will.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
“Calumet terminal.”
“What happened?”
“A freight container was opened where it shouldn’t have been.”
Naomi waited.
“That’s vague.”
“Yes.”
“Dangerous?”
“Yes.”
“To you?”
A pause.
“Possibly.”
She hated that answer.
“What time will you be done?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then when will you call?”
He considered.
“Six.”
“Not your assistant.”
“Me.”
“Not a text.”
“A call.”
She nodded.
“Go.”
Adrian walked toward the elevator.
Then stopped.
Turned.
“Naomi.”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
She looked away.
“Just call.”
At 5:58 that evening, her phone rang.
Adrian.
Naomi stared at the time.
Two minutes early.
She answered.
“You survived.”
“Disappointed?”
“Moderately.”
He almost laughed.
“I’m still at Calumet.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
Her entire body stiffened.
Silence followed.
Adrian realized immediately.
“Wrong answer.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
“A container assigned to one of our legitimate freight clients was found carrying cargo that wasn’t listed.”
“What kind?”
“I’m not discussing specifics over the phone.”
“Illegal?”
“Yes.”
“Yours?”
“No.”
“Do you believe that?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Naomi sat straighter.
“Then someone used your company.”
“Yes.”
“Victor?”
“No.”
Too fast.
She noticed.
“Are you sure?”
“He has run Calumet for fourteen years.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Adrian went quiet.
Naomi stared through Claire’s living-room window.
Chicago glowed beneath the evening sun.
“Adrian.”
“Yes?”
“Do not protect people from questions just because you have known them a long time.”
His voice became lower.
“I hear you.”
Those three words did something to her.
Not I know.
Not leave it alone.
Not handle your own day.
I hear you.
Naomi closed her eyes.
“Good.”
They spoke for another six minutes.
Mostly about nausea.
Adrian had apparently researched foods.
This was a mistake.
“Bananas.”
“No.”
“Rice.”
“Maybe.”
“Toast.”
“Yes.”
“Eggs—”
“If you say eggs, I will hang up.”
He stopped.
“Understood.”
At 6:11, they ended the call.
Claire entered carrying takeout.
“You look confused.”
“I am.”
“About Adrian?”
“Unfortunately.”
Naomi’s phone buzzed again.
Not Adrian.
Unknown number.
She opened the message.
A photograph appeared.
Naomi walking into St. Catherine’s that afternoon.
Taken from across the street.
Her hand was resting unconsciously against her abdomen.
Below the photograph were eleven words.
ASK YOUR HUSBAND WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LAST WOMAN AT CALUMET.
Naomi stopped breathing.
Claire set down the food.
“What?”
Naomi did not answer.
Another message arrived.
This time there was no photograph.
ONLY THIS:
HE CAN’T PROTECT YOU FROM WHAT HE HELPED BUILD.
Naomi stared at the words.
Then looked toward the darkening windows.
For the first time since leaving Adrian, she wondered whether the armed men outside her marriage had ever been the real reason she felt trapped.
May you like
Or whether, all along, someone had been waiting for her to step outside the walls.
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