Chapter 4: Forty Missed Calls

I turned my phone on at eight the next morning, at my aunt's kitchen counter.

It buzzed for a full minute without stopping.

Forty-one missed calls.

Marcy stood at the stove with a spatula and watched me scroll.

"Is that all him?"

"Thirty-eight are him. Three are Whitney."

"Whitney called you?"

"I think she wanted to say thank you."

The first text from Cory came in at six that morning.

[Where are you?]

Then, ten minutes apart:

[What is this on the table?]

[Beth, pick up.]

[The paper says five weeks. You can't be pregnant.]

I read that one again.

Not: are we having a baby.

Not: why didn't you tell me.

You can't be pregnant.

My coffee went cold in my hand.

Marcy leaned over my shoulder and read it too.

"Four years you begged God for this," she said. "And he says that?"

Another text arrived while we stood there.

[I'm coming to you.]

I looked at my screen.

Cory and I had shared our locations since our second year together.

I had forgotten to turn mine off.

"Marcy."

"What?"

"He knows where I am."

She put the spatula down and went to lock the deadbolt.

Twenty minutes later, someone pounded on the door.

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