“Since when do I have to account for my time to you?” she asked.

“Goddammit,” Mac exploded. “You think I don’t know? I’ve already been on the phone with Sal. Who, by the way, wants to talk to you about his visit to Tommy Mark Evans’s parents. You went to check things out, didn’t you, Kimberly? Couldn’t trust Sal to do the work. No, he’s only investigated fifty or sixty homicides in the past ten years, what the hell could he know about this kind of thing? Did you hit the bar scene? Go hooker shopping? Or did you stand on a street corner and call, ‘Here Mr. Freaky Scary Man. Come find fresh bait.’”

“I did no such thing! I drove around Alpharetta, checking out Ginny’s and Tommy’s respective homes. Nothing dangerous. Just sightseeing.”

“And your phone? Did it stay quiet?”

She thinned her lips mutinously, which was answer enough.

This time, Mac pounded the counter. “That’s it. As your husband, I have never laid down the law. But enough is enough. If you don’t have the good sense to see it, I certainly do. You’re off this case. Fini. Done. Let Sal handle it!”

“Please, it was just heavy breathing, obscene phone call one-oh-one. I’m not going to be chased off by a kid playing games, and you should be ashamed of yourself for even suggesting such a thing.”

“Kimberly, don’t you get it?”

“Get what?” she shouted back, honestly bewildered.

“It’s not about you anymore. It’s about our baby, the unborn child growing in your stomach. Who is already growing and experiencing the world, even from the womb. Our child has ears, you know. I checked that damn book you gave me. At the twenty-week mark, babies can hear. And what the hell did our baby get to listen to last night?”

It took her a second. Then the dots connected, and her hands went reflexively to her belly, cradling the gently rounded curve in a belated act of protection. She hadn’t thought, hadn’t realized…

But yes, she was past the twenty-week mark. When the fetus had ears and the really dedicated mothers started playing Mozart and Beethoven in order to develop neonatal geniuses. Except Kimberly didn’t have the time or patience for that nonsense. No, she just had her unborn child listen to the sound of a woman dying.

“I’m sure…” she started, then stopped, unable to continue.

Mac’s shoulders finally came down. Across the kitchen, his rage appeared to drain from him. He looked simply haunted instead. She should cross to him, she thought, slip her arms around his waist, rest her head upon his chest. Maybe if he felt the baby move the way she felt the baby move, he would understand that their child was doing fine, babies were resilient, blah, blah, blah.

But she couldn’t move.

She stood there. Her baby could hear. And what had she made her baby listen to last night?

Mac was right. Life had changed.

“Kimberly,” Mac ventured, softer this time, tired. “We’re going to get through this.”

“If I quit my job?” she asked quietly. “Stop being an agent, stop being a workaholic, stop being me?”

“You know I would never ask that of you.”

“But you are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insisted, voice rising again. “There’s a difference between not working at all and not working violent crimes. There’s a difference between asking you to stay home and asking you to reduce your hours to forty a week. There’s a difference between saying, hey, bail on all your assignments, and saying, Kimberly, please don’t take on a new case that’s not even FBI jurisdiction. I’m not asking for the sun, the moon, the stars at night. I’m just asking for common sense.”

“Common sense?”

“Maybe I could’ve said that better.”

“What’s different right now, Mac? You tell me, what’s really different?”

His turn to be confused. “The baby?”

“The pregnancy! We’re not dealing with a baby yet, we’re talking about my body. The exact same body I’ve taken to work the past four years and brought home safe again.”

“That’s not entirely true-”

“The hell it is! You want to talk trust? Common sense? Then trust me to take care of myself, and this body, the way I have for the past four years. I’m not walking into shoot-outs. I’m not serving high-risk warrants. I don’t even go to the firing range anymore, to avoid exposure to lead. Hell, I just spent six days at a crime scene and never even crossed over the yellow tape, just to be on the safe side. I’m taking my prenatals, avoiding alcohol, and watching my intake of fresh fish. Frankly, I’m doing a damn good job of tending myself and the baby, and yet the first time the phone rings, you’re ready to pull rank. ‘Hey, little lady, this is too tough for you, time to sit it out.’”

“I did not say that!”

“You might as well have!”

“What is wrong with you?” He was back to shouting now. “How can you be so damn stubborn? This is our baby. How can you not love it as much as I do?”

The second he said the words, she could tell he wanted them back. But of course, it was too late. He had gone and said it, the statement that had hung in the air between them from the moment she had first discovered her pregnancy. His fear. Her fear. She had thought it would hurt. It did.

“Kimberly-”

“I think we should call it a night.”

“You know I don’t mean that.”

“But you do, Mac. You do. Your mom stayed home with you. Your sisters are at home with their kids. For all of your talk, you’re still a traditionalist at heart. The husband works. The wife stays at home. And she should be happy to do it, assuming she loves her family.”

“You’re right, we should call it a night.”

“I already did.”

She turned, stomping down the hall toward their bedroom.

She expected him to follow. That was their pattern. She was hardheaded, proud, stubborn to a fault. But in the end, he could always talk her down, finagle a kiss, make her smile.

She needed him to talk her down. She needed him to put his arms around her and tell her she would be a good mother and she wasn’t as awful and selfish and self-destructive as she suddenly felt.

But Mac didn’t follow her down the hall. After a moment, she heard the front door open, shut, and then she was all alone.

BURGERMAN TOOK AWAY MY BIRTHDAY. SAID I DIDN’T need it anymore. We celebrated a new day, homecoming. The day I belonged to him.

On my fourth homecoming, he brought me a case of beer and a hooker.

“I don’t know,” the prostitute said. “He looks pretty young.”

“What the fuck do you care?” Burgerman asked. “I’m his father, and if I want to show my kid a good time, what’s it to you? You should be grateful to finally have some fresh cock, instead of the usual limp dick. Go on, fine-looking kid like that. Knock yourself out.”

Funny thing was, I was a decent-looking kid. My life had ended, but my body didn’t seem to know it. I grew. My shoulders broadened. My arms gained thin ropes of muscle. I even had the beginnings of facial hair.

I was getting old. Old enough that the Burgerman didn’t touch me so often anymore.

He had other uses for me now.

The girl stepped obediently forward. Burgerman got out the camera.

“Don’t be nervous, now,” the girl said. She touched my cheek. I flinched.

“Tell you what, honey, just block him from your mind. Just pretend he’s not even there. It’s just you and me. A good-looking boy, a pretty young girl.” She giggled, revealing two missing teeth. “Fine couple like us oughtta be able to have some fun.”

She took my hand, tucked it under her shirt, on top of her breasts. “How does that feel, honey? Nice, huh? Gotta say, T-n-A guys love me. I got all the right curves.”

I thought she felt soft, flabby. I didn’t know what to do with my fingers. My face was burning crimson. I looked away, but still couldn’t stop the blush.