night and most of the morning. He worked the overnight shift at a gas station. He waited outside the baby store for it to open. By the time he returned home …” He hesitates, and I lean over and wipe his cheeks. “By the time he got home, they were dead.”
I’m both devastated and surprised. “He didn’t do it?”
“He fucking did it, all right. By taking her—them—he caused it to happen. The medical examiner said she was so traumatized she went into early labor. She was dehydrated because he didn’t bother to give her a goddamn glass of water. Between that, the emotional trauma that psycho put her through, and the physical exertion of her trying to escape, she had contractions. With no medical help to stop them, she” —he looks away— “she delivered the baby.”
“Oh, God,” I cry, my hands trembling almost as hard as his.
His lips twitch painfully. “My daughter was too little to survive.”
I have no idea what to say as he relives his nightmare. All I can do is be here. Offer him my hand. Share in his tears. Absorb some of his pain.
“She died giving birth?” I ask hesitantly.
He shakes his head. “I wish she had.” His words are so thick and gravelly, I have to strain to hear them. “She watched our tiny baby come out of her, then she watched her die.” He slams a fist on the table. “Fuck!”
I grab his hand. “It’s okay. Let it out.”
His eyes are red and swollen, his cheeks pale, and his breathing fast. For the first time today, he looks directly at me. “She watched her die and then she tied a sheet to a rafter and looped it around her neck.”
My hand covers the sob that begs to come out. I want to break down, but I can’t allow it. None of this is about me.
“He didn’t even call the goddamn police when he found them. He cut her down and laid them both on the bed he’d put down there. He kept them there for a fucking week, like they were his family. It wasn’t until a neighbor smelled—” He looks like he’s going to vomit again.
“Chris.” I stand. “Come with me.” I lead him to the couch and get him a shot of whiskey. Then another.
He tells me about wanting to kill the guy. About Dr. Evans killing him instead and then about seeing him today for the first time since it all happened. He tells me he planned to name the baby Nicole, which was Abby’s middle name, despite how he teased her about wanting to call her Slash. Then, from sheer exhaustion mixed with alcohol, he falls asleep, his head in my lap. I cry as I brush back the hair of this broken man.
An hour later, he wakes, pops up, and looks at the time. “Shit, I have to go. The gig.”
I get off the couch with him. “You’re going to the show?” I look back at the kitchen table where he spilled his guts to me. “After this?”
He fetches his phone and notebook. “Ronni’s got us by the balls, Bria. I have to.” He holds out a hand. “Come with me.”
I step back. “I’m grateful you opened up to me, but it’s a lot to process, and I’m not sure it changes the reasons why I left.”
“But now you know why I am the way I am.”
“But knowing why you act that way and putting up with it because of your loss are two different things. You need help, Chris. Help I can’t give you.”
“I’ll get it, I promise. Anything. Just sing with me.”
I shake my head sadly. “I can’t.”
“Even if …” He looks pained. “Even if I say I might love you?”
My heart twinges. My eyes get glassy. “Especially if you say that. I can’t be with someone who might love me. I know you love her even though she’s gone, and I’m okay with that, but you need time. You just ripped off a big damn Band-Aid, and your wounds are raw. You need time to deal with that before you can move forward with me.”
“But you only have until Monday, and I don’t want to sing with Tiffani.”
My eyebrows touch the ceiling and my spine stiffens. “Tiffani?”
“Ronni pulled another dick move and hired someone to replace you if you don’t come back. She practiced with us this morning.”
I sit on a chair so heavily, it hurts my butt. “She didn’t even wait for the body to