Page 45 of The (Maybe) Murderer Who Knocked Me Up

“I thought you lived in San Antonio,” I say. That’s a long drive.

“I do. I, um, really need to talk to you. It looks like you’re working, but I can wait.”

I look back at the bread pans filled with dough. Normally, I make the cookies while I wait for the bread to rise, but that could wait. At least for a little while.

“Let’s go to my house,” I say, pointing to the trailer out front.

He follows me through the back door. I wish I finished doing the dishes before leaving this morning. Boxes of cereal and empty bowls still wait on the table.

“Sorry about the mess. Can I get you some tea? Or maybe some water?”

He pulls out a chair and sits, his belly almost touching the edge of the table. “Thank you. Some water would be nice.”

I clear off the cereal and bowls before grabbing glasses of water for both of us. Jake watches me closely. At first, I just think he’s being attentive. But when I place his glass in front of him, he moves back slightly, acutely aware of where my body is in relation to his.

He reminds me of Silver’s best friend, Lucas. When we were growing up, Lucas used to come to school with black eyes now and again. He never told us he got them from his alpha dad, but Silver worried about it.

Has Jake been abused too?

I sit across from him. I’m still wearing a hair net and an apron covered in flour. “Oh my god. This is embarrassing.” I pull the hairnet off my head and toss it into the trash.

Jake lets out a breathy laugh. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“No worries at all. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He pulls out his phone and swipes his screen a few times, then slides it across the table. There’s a photo of two little boys grinning at each other over an ice cream sundae on the screen. One looks like a carbon copy of Chime, and the other is bigger with Slade’s nose.

“That’s the only photo we have of us as kids. Our moms lost all the others. Slade remembers a time when they weren’t addicts, but I don’t. He was the one who took care of me. He made sure I had enough to eat and he kept me safe. He was my world back then.” Jake takes his phone back and swipes to another picture. This one is a mug shot of a young teenage boy. He’s dangerously skinny with sores on his face.

“Slade was good at staying out of trouble. He did his homework and kept his nose clean. I didn’t. This is the first time I got caught with drugs. I was only thirteen.”

I can’t believe that’s a photo of Jake. He looks like an entirely different person.

“A year later, our moms were arrested, and we got put in foster care. Most families won’t take a kid with a record, so we got separated. I was put in a group home, and he was sent to live with a lady named Georgina. Up until that point, I’d done a lot of stupid shit, but Slade was always there to get me out of it. At the group home, I had no one. So I did more drugs, and when I got caught, I did more time in juvie. It was an endless cycle. I was trying to buy Molly the night of the murder.”

Is that why he came here? To tell me about why Slade did it?

“My brother mentioned that you have a child together?” Jake says.

I nod.

“And you kept that child a secret from him because you’re worried he’s dangerous?”

I nod again.

Jake takes a deep breath. “Slade doesn’t know I’m here. He wouldn’t want me to tell you any of this. But you need to know that my brother is the kindest, sweetest guy you’ll ever meet. He’d do anything for me, Quin. Even go to jail for something he didn’t do.”

My stomach drops. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

“Do you mean the murder?” I ask.

He stares at me for a long time before turning his head away. “What do you think, Quin? The victim was human and small for an alpha. Would a guy like my brother need to stab him to protect me? It makes a lot more sense for a young omega who was pinned to the ground and fighting for his life to use a weapon, doesn’t it?”

My mind reels as I try to process what Jake is saying. I remember how shocked I was when I found out Slade had killed someone. It didn’t seem in line with his character. I’ve spent the last six years questioning my own judgement because of how wrong I was about him.

But what if I was never wrong?

“His name was Chad Avery,” Jake says softly. “I think about him sometimes—wonder what I could have done differently. I have nightmares of thrashing underneath him and the warmth of his blood on my fingers. The knife was his. I don’t think I was the first omega he threatened with it, and I don’t think I would have been the last, had he walked away.”

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