She hesitates for a second, her hand on the door knob. “Whatever, Madden. Your loss.”
When she’s finally gone, I head to the window, watching to make sure she actually leaves, only for the shortest of seconds I swear I spot a white Volvo driving away. It’s too far off for me to tell for sure.
It’s probably just wishful thinking.
Forty-Three
Brighton
* * *
“Brighton, could you come in here please?” my mother’s voice calls from the dining room when I get home from work Monday night.
I spent all day in a fog, distracted and preoccupied. Twice I messed up the final numbers on the Trilintix spreadsheet and caught them in the seconds before I emailed them to our team leader for the final report.
At one point, Thom asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine, just tired. He left on his break and came back with a triple espresso for me. It was the sweetest gesture, but I poured it out as soon as he wasn’t looking. I know caffeine in large amounts can be dangerous during pregnancy.
All I keep thinking about is this baby …
And Madden and Veronica …
I leave my bag on the kitchen island and head into the dining room where my parents are seated at the far end.
There’s no food in front of them, and in fact, the kitchen is dark and empty—they must have given the chef the night off.
“Have a seat, please, Brighton,” my father says, though I can’t help but notice he won’t look at me.
It isn’t until I’m pulling out the chair across from my mother that I spot a Ziploc baggie resting in front of her holding none other than my positive pregnancy test.
I have no idea how she got that … Eloise must have found it while emptying out my trash today? Though that isn’t like her to go snooping or rifling.
My mother’s fingers rap on the polished mahogany dining table.
Perhaps it wasn’t Eloise at all.
“Is this why you came home?” my father asks, cutting to the chase. “Because you’re … in trouble?”
In trouble? What is this, the 1950s?
“For the record, I think it’s abhorrent that you went digging through my trash,” I say, speaking directly to my mother. “And you wonder why I left the first time.”
She looks to my father, then down at the test.
“Brighton.” My father’s voice bellows, echoing off the high ceiling above. “Answer me.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not why I came home. I didn’t know I was pregnant until two days ago.”
My father’s fist is balled and he’s breathing so loud I’m sure the neighbors down the street can hear him.
“And what are you going to do about this little problem of yours?” he asks.
“A baby isn’t a problem,” I say. “This pregnancy might be an inconvenience, but I refuse to call it a problem.”
“Then how do you intend on providing for this child? You can’t even provide for yourself,” he says. “If you ask me, that sounds like a problem.”
“I have a good job,” I say. “And I’m moving into an apartment at the end of the month. I’ll just have to get a two-bedroom unit.”
“And how will you pay for childcare?” my mother asks. “Do you have any idea what a good nanny costs in this town?”
“I’ll use a daycare center,” I say, not that I’ve thought that far out.
“And what does Madden say about all of this?” she asks.
I glance down at my lap for a moment. “He doesn’t know. Not yet.”
“What do you mean, he doesn’t know?”
“I haven’t told him yet.” I leave out the part where I drove to his place Saturday night and caught him in the arms of his ex. “I will. I just want to go to the doctor first. Have an actual ultrasound. That kind of thing. I have an appointment this Friday morning and I’ll go from there.”
“What time?” my mother asks. “I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to …”
“Brighton, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going alone,” she says.
Dragging in a ragged breath, I offer a, “Fine. It’s at eight thirty. But you’ll have to drive separate because I’m going straight to work after.”
“All right,” she says. “That’s not a problem.”
Standing, I say, “If you two don’t mind, I’d like to head up now and lie down for a bit. I’ve had a long day and I—”
“Not yet,” my father says. “Sit back down.”
I have no idea what else he could possibly need to discuss with me, but I’m too tired to put up any more of a fight, so I take a seat.
A stack of papers rests on the corner of the table, and he slides them closer.
“There’s something I think you should see,” he says, pushing them toward me.
Examining the papers, I spot a logo across the top, some background check agency, and then beneath that is the name MADDEN RANSOM along with his date of birth and what appears to be a driver’s license photo.
“You did a background check on him?” I ask. I don’t know why any of this surprises me because my parents are certifiably insane when it comes to anything involving me, but here I sit in disbelief.
“Keep reading,” my father says.
Beneath his name is a list of what appear to be criminal charges.
“Burglary,” I read out loud. “Stalking? Harassment?”
None of this is the Madden I know.
“That man is a liar and a con.” My father presses his index finger against the top sheet of paper. I flip it over and the list continues. Misdemeanors. DUIs. Everything under the sun except murder. If what I’m seeing is true, it would explain why he never wanted to discuss his past.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “He’s not like this …”
“How well do you really know him, sweetheart?” My mother takes the gentle approach, though I suspect it has more to do with my “delicate condition” than anything else.
“Ten years ago, he changed his name,” my father says, pointing to a spot on the third page. “He used to be Madden Kramer. Changed it to Ransom when he turned eighteen.”
“Changing his name doesn’t make him a bad person,” I say, though I can’t believe I’m defending him.
“His father,” my dad begins, “is Rodney Kramer … the Rodney Kramer who killed your grandparents.”
Sinking against the back of my chair, I stare at the words on the papers in front of me until they become nothing but random letters that don’t make an ounce of sense.
Did he know?
Is that why he pushed me away?
I think about that night in the car, when we drove to Hidden Oaks and I showed him my grandparents’ house and told him about the night they were killed. He was quiet after that—more so than usual. Looking back, I bet he was putting it all together.
He knew …
But I don’t understand why he kept it from me.
“Madden Ransom is a con and a criminal and the son of a murderer,” my father says with the confidence of a prosecuting attorney. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way … especially given your … current condition.”