The Crash

by Freida McFadden

I’ve never killed anyone before. I’m not a murderer. I’m a good person. I don’t lie. I don’t cheat. I don’t steal. I hardly ever even raise my voice. There are very few things I’ve done in my life that I’m ashamed of. Yet here I am.

No, the reason my coat doesn’t close anymore is that it no longer fits over my distended belly. I am nearly eight months pregnant.

Soon, I’m going to be rich beyond my wildest dreams. And it’s all because of the baby growing inside me.

And very soon—after the papers are signed—I’ll likely never see him again.

But the fact is I did get pregnant at age twenty-two. It was a one-night stand. And up until recently, I didn’t know who the father was.

That’s why I don’t even feel one scrap of guilt about the payday coming my way.

He refused to even meet with me, even after the paternity test he demanded proved that he was indeed the father of my child.

It’s a man. An extremely large man. And he’s coming toward me, an object gripped in his right hand.

Now it’s eight years, three bank-shattering IVF cycles, and one failed adoption later.

Unfortunately, The Incident meant there would be no family—we had to withdraw our name from the waiting list for adoptions and foster children. We would never become parents.

When that happens, he may not like the answers quite as much, but when it comes down to it, he’s going to do exactly what I tell him to do. He doesn’t have a choice.

“Hank, if you do this, I’m going to call the police.” He freezes midway up the stairs, his hulking frame rigid. “And,” I add, “I’m going to tell them what you did.”

There’s an unfamiliar car in my driveway. And a man standing on my porch, at my front door. And he’s waiting for me.