a string of jobs since becoming Liz’s client four months ago. Most had lasted only a few days or a week at best at the others. The bosses were stupid, the hours were too many or too few, the location too far. The list went on and on—countless reasons not to keep a job.
“Why, Mary?”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I gave a few friends a little discount on their makeup. Stupid boss made a big deal out of it.”
“Imagine that. Now what do you plan to do?”
“I’ve been thinking about killing myself.”
It was the one thing Mary could have said that made Liz grasp for words. “How would you do it, Mary?” she asked, sounding calmer than she felt.
“I don’t know. Nothing bloody. Maybe pills. Or I might just walk off the end of Navy Pier. They say drowning is pretty peaceful.”
No plan. That was good. Was it just shock talk, something destined to get Mary the attention that she seemed to crave?
“Sometimes it seems like the only answer,” Mary said. She stared at her round stomach. “You know what I mean?”
Liz did know, better than most. She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the open street-level window. Three years ago, it had been a day not all that different from today. Maybe not as hot but there’d been a similar stillness in the air.
There’d been no breeze to carry the scent of death. Nothing that had prepared her for walking into that house and seeing sweet Jenny, with the deadly razor blade just inches from her limp hand, lying in the red pool of death.
Yeah, Liz knew. She just wished she didn’t.
“No one would probably even notice,” Mary said, her lower lip trembling.
Liz got up, walked around the desk and sat in the chair next to the teen. The vinyl covering on the seat, cracked in places, scratched her bare legs. She clasped Mary’s hand and held it tight. “I would notice.”
With her free hand, Mary played with the hem of her maternity shorts. “Some days,” she said, “I want this baby so much, and there are other days that I can’t stand it. It’s like this weird little bug has gotten into my stomach, and it keeps growing and growing until it’s going to explode, and there will be bug pieces everywhere.”
Liz rubbed her thumb across the top of Mary’s hand. “Mary, it’s okay. You’re very close to your due date. It’s natural to be scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
Of course not. “Have you thought any more about whether you intend to keep the baby or give it up for adoption?”
“It’s not a baby. It’s a bug. You got some bug parents lined up?” Mary rolled her eyes.
“I can speak with our attorney,” Liz said, determined to stay on topic. “Mr. Fraypish has an excellent record of locating wonderful parents.”
Mary stared at Liz, her eyes wide open. She didn’t look happy or sad. Interested or bored. Just empty.
Liz stood up and stretched, determined that Mary wouldn’t see her frustration. The teen had danced around the adoption issue for months, sometimes embracing it and other times flatly rejecting it. But she needed to make a decision. Soon.
Liz debated whether she should push. Mary continued to stare, her eyes focused somewhere around Liz’s chin. Neither of them said a word.
Outside her window, a car stopped with a sudden squeal of brakes. Liz looked up just as the first bullet hit the far wall.
Noise thundered as more bullets spewed through the open window, sending chunks of plaster flying. Liz grabbed for Mary, pulling the pregnant girl to the floor. She covered the teen’s body with her own, doing her best to keep her weight off the girl’s stomach.
It stopped as suddenly as it had started. She heard the car speed off, the noise fading fast.
Liz jerked away from Mary. “Are you okay?”
The teen stared at her stomach. “I think so,” she said.
Liz could see the girl reach for her familiar indifference, but it had been too quick, too frightening, too close. Tears welled up in the teen’s eyes, and they rolled down her smooth, freckled cheeks. With both hands, she hugged her middle. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to die. I don’t want my baby to die.”
Liz had seen Mary angry, defensive, even openly hostile. But she’d never seen her cry. “I know, sweetie. I know.” She reached to hug her but stopped when she heard the front door of OCM slam open and the thunder of footsteps on the wooden stairs.
Her heart rate sped up, and she hurriedly got to her feet, moving in front of Mary. The closed office door swung open. She saw the gun, and for a crazy minute, she thought the man holding it had come back to finish what he’d started. She’d been an idiot not to take the threat seriously. Some kind of strange noise squeaked out of her throat.
“It’s all right,” the man said. “I’m Detective Sawyer Montgomery with Chicago Police, ma’am. Are either of you hurt?”
It took her a second or two to process that this man wasn’t going to hurt her. Once it registered, it seemed as if her bones turned to dust, and she could barely keep her body upright. He must have sensed that she was just about to go down for the count because he shoved his gun back into his shoulder holster and grabbed her waist to steady her.
“Take a breath,” he said. “Nice and easy.”
She closed her eyes and focused on sucking air in through her nose and blowing it out her mouth. All she could think about was that he didn’t sound like a Chicago cop. He sounded Southern, like the cool, sweet tea she’d enjoyed on hot summer evenings a lifetime ago. Smooth.
After four or five breaths, she opened her eyes. He looked at her, saw that she was back among the living and let go of her waist. He backed up a step. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.
“We’re okay,” she said, focusing on him. He wore gray dress pants, a wrinkled white shirt and a red tie that was loose at the collar. He had a police radio clipped to his belt, and though it was turned low, she could hear the background noise of Chicago’s finest at work.
He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a badge, flipped it open and held it steady, giving her a chance to read.
“Thank you, Detective Montgomery,” she said.
He nodded and pivoted to show it to Mary. Once she nodded, he flipped it shut and returned it to his pocket. Then he extended a hand to help Mary up off the floor.
Mary hesitated, then took it. Once up, she moved several feet away. Detective Montgomery didn’t react. Instead he pulled his radio from his belt. “Squad, this is 5162. I’m inside at 229 Logan Street. No injuries to report. Backup is still requested to secure the exterior.”
Liz stared at the cop. He had the darkest brown eyes—almost, but not quite, black. His hair was brown and thick and looked as if it had recently been trimmed. His skin was tanned, and his lips had a very nice shape.
Best-looking
