Page 13 of Cashmere Cruelty

“Don’t worry. I won’t force you to come out here. Not until you’re ready.”

Guilt pricks at me again. I know why I’m doing this, but it doesn’t help one bit. When the second-guessing marathons start, I’m the undefeated champion.

To distract myself, I rip the envelope open. I’m pretty much trading guilt with guilt, but who’s keeping score?

I take the papers out. The amniocentesis sheet’s got all kinds of data on it—numbers Dr. Allen already explained to me over the phone. No chromosomal anomalies, no illnesses. In short, nothing to worry about.

The second sheet, however, is different. I asked to see these results on my own; I wanted to be prepared. Of course, I’m realizing now that no number of pep talks in the mirror is going to make this easier.

Paternity tests aren’t supposed to be taken behind the father’s back, after all.

In my defense, I didn’t have much of a choice. It was either “swipe the guy’s hair from the jacket he tried on once and forge his signature on the consent form” or “call him and tell him you’re pregnant,” and I sure as hell wasn’t going to pick the option behind Door #2. Not unless someone held me at gunpoint.

Because if the Internet rumors are true, Matvey Groza isnotthe kind of man you’d want for a baby daddy.

“Alright, Nugget,” I say out loud, trying to calm my hands from shaking. “Moment of truth.”

I unfold the sheet. The wordsDNA Paternity Reportstare judgmentally up at me. I glance over the columns in the first page—more numbers. I don’t care about these ones. The only number I care about is at the end of the second page.

The number that will spell out my doom.

Based on the analysis of the STR loci listed above, the probability of paternity is…

“Ninety-nine percent,” I mutter to myself. “Of course. Figures.”

I can’t say I’m surprised. Honestly, it was either him or Jesus. But I guess a part of me was hoping for a miracle.

“Well,” I sigh, giving Nugget a small pat over my belly, “you might not be the Second Coming, but you’re still my special little guy. Or girl.”

I start making my way back to my car. Well, mine and June’s. People argue there’s little point owning a car in New York City, but they clearly haven’t tried taking the subway while a bazillion months pregnant. If the elbows and mariachi bands don’t get you, the rats will.

I reach the parking lot. My little Honda Civic is still where I left it—never something to take for granted—but significantly snugger, I note.

Courtesy of the big black van parked right next to it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I squeeze myself into the narrow passage, trying to suck in my belly and failing. Because—newsflash—you can’t suck in your uterus.

I’ve got half a mind to key the fucker. I’m debating whether I should actually go through with it when, all of a sudden, the van door slides open.

“Oh, thank God,” I sigh, turning in the newly-freed pocket of space. “Look, I’ve gotta get out of here. Would you mind?—”

They say hindsight is 20/20. For example, I knownowthat I shouldn’t have squeezed myself between my car and an unknown van.

I knownowI shouldn’t have forgotten Girl Safety 101: never be alone in a parking lot.

But knowingnowis pretty fucking useless.

Because, as soon as the guy grabs me, I’m already done for.

5

APRIL

One thing to be said for the dumb girl who just got herself kidnapped: I don’t go down without a fight.

I scream.

I kick.

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