Page 43 of The (Maybe) Murderer Who Knocked Me Up

I notice that none of the furniture in here is second-hand like the table. It’s all brand new. In addition to the new furniture, someone has piled bags of my favorite chips and candy on the bed. After years of sharing a cell with a bunk bed and an exposed toilet, I can’t believe this room is mine.

“Do you like it?” Jake asks.

“Yeah, thank you so much.”

He walks over to the dresser and opens the middle drawer, which is stuffed with shirts. “I got you some clothes. Just a few things until we get a chance to take you shopping. I figured you were Stew’s size, but if they don’t fit I still have the receipts, and we can exchange them.” He opens the second drawer, which has pants, and a third that has pajamas. I’ve never owned so many clothes in my life. I’ve never had a gaming system either. I don’t even play video games.

How much did everything in this room cost Jake?

Stew hooks an arm around Jake’s shoulders. “Why don’t I go pick up some wings for us and let you two catch up?”

Jake shakes his head. “Let’s do pizza instead. That’s Slade’s favorite. Pepperoni and mushrooms.”

My mouth waters. God, I’ve missed pizza. Technically, they served it at Sciff, but their version tasted like cardboard.

“I’ll get wingsandpizza. Because I know you’re craving wings. Don’t try to tell me that you aren’t. You rarely want to eat anything else.” He gives Jake a knowing smile.

“Fine,” Jake relents. “Wingsandpizza. But I don’t just eat wings. I eat vegetables too.”

Stew laughs. “Right. The celery and carrots that come with wings.”

Jake glares at him, but he’s smiling. “They still count.”

Stew leans down to kiss him. The gentle love between them normally makes me happy. I’m proud of my brother and the healthy relationship he’s been able to build with Stew, despite all the trauma he experienced as a child. But today their playful banter makes me wonder what Quin craved when he was pregnant with Chime. I’ll probably never know.

For the first time since I made the decision to take the fall for my brother, I feel a twinge of jealousy. The moment I recognize it for what it is, I push it down. I offered to go to jail for him. It isn’t his fault that Quin got pregnant.

“I’ll be back soon,” Stew says, and heads out the door.

“Thanks, honey.” Jake sits down at the edge of my bed and tosses me a bag of chips. “You saw Quin today, right? How did it go?”

I sit next to him. A part of me is tempted to lie. What will Jake think of me when he finds out what I did to Quin? Right now, Jake is the only person I have left in the universe who thinks I’m worth something.

But I need help figuring out what to do next. I could keep my distance, the way Silver suggested. That might be what’s best for Quin and Chime. The only problem is, that’s what I’ve been doing for the last six years.

“I, um, got him pregnant,” I say.

Jake sits back, confusion etched on his face. “Today?”

“No. Six years ago. I guess I have a daughter. Her name is Chime.”

Jake sits there, silently. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he didn’t hear me. But I remember how he ignored the hardest moments when we were kids. He’d pretend not to see the eviction notice on our front door and he’d put blankets on our moms when they were high, so he could believe they were just taking a nap.

“This isn’t your fault,” I tell him.

He gives me a sad smile. “I think it is, actually.”

“No. Quin wrote me a letter, and I chose to never respond, even after I had unprotected sex with him. That’s on me.”

He looks down at his swollen belly and rubs it tenderly. “I know you, Slade. If you were free, you would have been the best dad in the world to that little girl. You weren’t there for her because you were doing time for me.”

“That guy was going to kill you. All you did was defend yourself?—”

“I know,” he says.

We haven’t talked about this since the night of the murder. All the conversations we had at Sciff were recorded, which meant that we couldn’t without the cops figuring out what really happened.

“Quin thinks you’re a murderer,” Jake says.

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