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 cop she’d seen in some time.
In fact, only cop she’d seen in some time. Logan Street wasn’t in a great neighborhood but was quiet in comparison to the streets that ran a couple blocks to the south. As such, it didn’t get much attention from the police.
And yet, Detective Montgomery had been inside OCM less than a minute after the shooting. That didn’t make sense. She stepped forward, putting herself between the detective and Mary.
“How did you get here so quickly?” she asked.
He hesitated for just a second. “I was parked outside.”
“That was coincidental,” she said. “I’m not generally big on coincidences.”
He shrugged and pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “May I have your name, please?”
His look and his attitude were all business. His voice was pure pleasure. The difference in the two caught her off balance, making her almost forgive that he was being deliberately evasive. There was a reason he’d been parked outside, but he wasn’t ready to cough it up. She was going to have to play the game his way.
“Liz Mayfield,” she said. “I’m one of three counselors here at OCM. Options for Caring Mothers,” she added. “This is Mary Thorton.”
The introduction wasn’t necessary. The girl had been keeping him up at nights. Sawyer knew her name, her social security number, her address. Hell, he knew her favorite breakfast cereal. Three empty boxes of Fruit Loops in her garbage had been pretty hard to miss. “Miss Thorton,” he said, nodding at the teen before turning back to the counselor. “Is there anybody else in the building?”
The woman shook her head. “Carmen was here earlier, but she left to take her brother to the orthodontist. Cynthia, she’s the third counselor, just works in the mornings. We have a part-time receptionist, too, but she’s not here today. Oh, and Jamison is getting ready for a fund-raiser. He’s working off-site.”
“Who’s Jamison?”
“He’s the boss.”
“Okay. Why don’t the two of you—”
Sawyer stopped when he heard his partner let loose their call numbers. He turned the volume up on his radio.
“Squad, this is 5162, following a gray Lexus, license Adam, John, David, 7, 4, 9. I lost him, somewhere around Halsted and 35th. Repeat, lost him. Keep an eye out, guys.”
Sawyer