Chapter 11: Pleading

Delia was sitting on Wren's front step in the dark on Thursday night, with her knees pulled up and her coat wrapped around them.

I saw her from the end of the street.

Wren's porch light was off, and Wren was inside, rattling pans.

I had come for dinner, and I stopped on the walk with my keys in my hand.

"Libby," Delia said, and stood.

Her face was blotchy.

She had been crying for a while, and she had not fixed it.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"Your sister's car was outside. I waited."

"For how long?"

"Two hours." She laughed unsteadily. "It's fine. I deserve it."

"What do you want?"

"Don't go to the gala."

"I got your text."

"You didn't answer it."

"I didn't have to."

She came down a step and took both my hands.

Her fingers were ice cold.

"Please. Please, Libby. I'm trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"From him. From all of it." Her eyes darted over my face. "You don't know how he gets in front of a crowd. He'll say things. He'll humiliate you."

"He's done that."

"Worse. Much worse. I'm trying to protect you, and I can't tell you how."

"Then why should I listen?"

She swallowed.

"If you walk in there and he sees you, he'll panic. And when he panics, he lies. He'll say it isn't his."

I did not move.

"I haven't told anyone about the baby," I said. "Not even Owen. Why would he say that?"

"Because men do. When they're cornered." She said it quickly. "They say it isn't theirs. They say anything."

"Owen would never say that to me."

"You don't know what he'd say."

"You said he was terrified of losing me. You said he cries."

"He does, he does, but..." She pressed her lips together.

For a second I thought I had seen something fall behind her eyes.

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