The contractions became closer together before we reached the hospital.
Marlene drove with both hands tight on the steering wheel, slowing at every intersection even when the road was empty.
I sat in the passenger seat with one hand braced against the dashboard and the other over my stomach.
Another contraction came.
I closed my eyes.
“Breathe,” Marlene said.
“I am.”
“I know.”
The hospital entrance came into view.
A security guard brought a wheelchair before I had even opened the door.
The nurse at reception recognized my name.
She looked at the folder in my hands.
“Thirty-six weeks at the first scan?”
“Almost thirty-seven now.”
She smiled.
“Let's get you checked.”
Everything happened quickly after that.
Blood pressure.
Temperature.
Monitoring straps around my stomach.
Questions about the contractions.
Questions about movement.
The nurse examined me and called the doctor.
“You're in early labor.”
I stared at her.
“Already?”
She smiled.
“Babies don't always respect calendars.”
Marlene laughed softly.
I didn't.
I was too frightened.
Not because I didn't want the baby.
I had wanted her for months.
I was frightened because everything had happened at once.
The money.
The lies.
The lawyers.
The debts.
The business.
And now she was actually coming.
The doctor entered and checked the monitor.
“The baby's heart rate looks good.”
Those words steadied me.
Good.
Again.
One small word carrying more weight than it should.
The contractions strengthened.
I asked Marlene to call Gavin.
She looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She stepped into the hallway.
A few minutes later, she returned.
“He's on his way.”
I nodded.
I didn't ask what he had said.
There wasn't room in my mind for anything except the next contraction.
Gavin arrived about forty minutes later.
He stood outside the room until the nurse let him in.
He looked at me.
I saw fear in his face.
Not the fear of losing money.
Not the fear of creditors.
Something different.
He was about to become a father.
He washed his hands and stood near the wall.
“Can I come closer?”
I nodded.
He pulled the chair beside the bed.
He didn't touch me.
That was one of the boundaries we had discussed.
I appreciated that he remembered.
Another contraction came.
I gripped the rail.
He watched helplessly.
“You're doing well,” he said.
I almost laughed.
“I know.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry.”
The doctor came in again.
Labor was progressing.
The next several hours blurred.
Pain.
Breathing.
Nurses checking the monitor.
Marlene holding my hand.
Gavin bringing water when I asked.
He didn't make decisions for me.
He didn't tell me what I needed.
He didn't call his mother.
He didn't call anyone else.
He simply stayed.
Near dawn, the doctor told me it was time.
Everything narrowed.
There was no money in that room.
No loan.
No Derek.
No business.
No hidden account.
Only the child I had carried for nearly nine months.
Then our daughter was born.
Her cry filled the room.
I began crying before I even saw her.
The nurse placed her against me.
She was tiny.
Warm.
Furious.
Perfectly alive.
I touched her cheek.
“Hi.”
My voice broke.
Gavin stood beside the bed.
He was crying.
The nurse looked at him.
“Would you like to cut the cord?”
He looked at me.
I nodded.
He did.
Then he stepped back.
Marlene was crying too.
The nurse weighed the baby.
She was smaller than average but healthy.
The doctor said she needed observation because she had arrived early.
I watched the monitor.
The baby's fingers curled around mine.
Gavin came closer.
“She's beautiful.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“Thank you.”
I didn't answer.
There were too many meanings inside those two words.
Later, after the nurses had settled us into a recovery room, I fell asleep.
When I woke, the room was dim.
Marlene was sitting by the window.
Gavin was gone.
I checked the bassinet.
Our daughter was sleeping.
A small knitted yellow sweater lay folded beside her.
I touched it.
Marlene smiled.
“I brought it.”
I looked at her.
“She'll grow into it.”
“I hope so.”
My phone vibrated.
A message from Elise.
Congratulations. When you're ready, there is an important development in the financial case.
I didn't open it immediately.
I wanted one hour.
Just one.
An hour without documents.
An hour without questions.
I looked at my daughter.
Her chest rose and fell.
I placed my hand near her.
She curled her fingers around one of mine.
Then I opened the message.
Elise had attached a document.
The forensic accountant had completed an initial review.
There was evidence that money had been transferred between Gavin's business, Derek's company, and Martin's account.
But there was another discovery.
A payment had been made from one of those accounts to a private investigator.
I stared at the name.
“What is this?”
Marlene leaned closer.
“I don't know.”
The investigator had been paid three weeks before my appointment.
The description read:
Background and asset review.
I felt cold.
“Why would Gavin hire an investigator?”
Marlene looked toward the door.
“I don't know.”
I called Elise.
She answered quickly.
“We were waiting until after the birth to tell you.”
“Who hired him?”
“The payment originated from the business account.”
“Gavin?”
“We don't know yet.”
“What was he investigating?”
There was a pause.
“You.”
My mouth went dry.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We're still trying to determine that.”
I looked at my daughter.
For the first time since she was born, the room didn't feel entirely safe.
“What did he want to know?”
“Your assets. Your employment. Your financial accounts. Your family connections.”
I stared at the wall.
“He was investigating me while I was pregnant.”
“That appears to be the case.”
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
I ended the call.
Marlene looked at me.
“What did she say?”
I told her.
She became pale.
“He was preparing for something.”
“Maybe.”
“Or he thought you were going to leave.”
I looked at the baby.
“Maybe.”
Gavin returned ten minutes later.
He carried coffee.
He stopped when he saw my face.
“What happened?”
“Did you hire a private investigator?”
His expression changed.
“Who told you?”
“Elise.”
He put the coffee down.
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
He sat.
“I was afraid you were going to leave.”
“So you investigated me?”
“I wanted to know what I'd be facing.”
“What does that mean?”
“I wanted to know whether you had money I didn't know about.”
I stared at him.
“You thought I was hiding money from you?”
“I thought you might protect yourself.”
“I was protecting our baby.”
“I know that now.”
“You paid someone to investigate me instead of asking me.”
He looked down.
“I was ashamed.”
“You keep using shame as an explanation.”
“I don't have a better one.”
The baby stirred.
I looked toward the bassinet.
Gavin followed my gaze.
“I shouldn't have done it.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“I'll give Elise everything.”
“You should.”
He stood.
“I'll leave.”
Before he reached the door, I said, “Gavin.”
He turned.
“Why did you think I would leave you?”
He looked at me.
“Because I knew what I'd done.”
That answer hurt.
Not because it excused him.
Because it didn't.
He left.
Marlene came to the bed.
“He was afraid.”
“I know.”
“Does that make it better?”
“No.”
The nurse came in to check the baby.
She smiled.
“She looks great.”
I looked at my daughter.
For the first time that day, I smiled too.
The investigator's report could wait.
The business could wait.
The debts could wait.
For a little while, I simply held my daughter.
But later that night, another message arrived.
From Elise.
We found what the investigator was looking for.
I opened it.
The message contained one sentence.
Gavin was trying to determine whether you had inherited money from your father.
I stared at the screen.
I had no inheritance.
My father had left nothing substantial.
But Gavin didn't know that.
Or perhaps he knew something I didn't.
I called Elise.
“What did he think I had?”
“We're checking.”
I looked at the sleeping baby.
“Please find out.”
“We will.”
I ended the call.
Then I saw another message.
This one was from Marlene's sister.
It said:
Audrey, I found an old letter from your father among the family papers. I think you should see it.
My heart stopped.
My father had died years earlier.
I had never heard of such a letter.
I looked at Marlene.
She was asleep in the chair.
I opened the attachment.
The photograph showed an envelope.
My name was written across the front.
And beneath it was a date from six months before my wedding.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: The Letter My Father Had Left Behind Explained Why Gavin Had Been Watching My Finances, But It Also Raised a Question He Could Not Answer
The Card Hit the Floor, But the Question That Followed Was Far More Expensive Than the Ultrasound
Part 13 of 20
