Back in my car, I sit in the parking lot of a coffee shop and pull out my phone. I have seventeen job search apps downloaded, and I start opening them one by one. I search for anything that might let me earn money while staying hidden.
I scroll through listing after listing, growing more desperate with each dead end. Most of the legitimate positions require skills I don’t have, like computer programming, graphic design, and technical writing. The others pay so little I’d never be able to afford rent and Leo’s expenses, let alone the medical bills that will come with the pregnancy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Carmen:How did it go at the agency?
I stare at the message for a long moment before typing back:No immediate openings. Still looking.
She responds immediately:Want to talk about it?
Later. Need to think.
I slide the phone back into my purse and lean my head against the steering wheel. Three months ago, my biggest worry was making Leo’s tuition payments on time. Now I’m hiding a pregnancy from the father, planning to disappear with two children, and discovering the life I thought I could build for us might be nothing more than a fantasy.
The worst part is that a small, traitorous part of my heart keeps wondering what would happen if I just told Radmir the truth. If I walked into his office, laid everything on the table, and let him decide what kind of father he wants to be, would he step up?
The memory of his voice yesterday stops that line of thinking cold. “I can’t do that,” he said when I asked him to choose between his business and me. If he won’t walk away from his dangerous life for the possibility of a relationship, would he do it for children he’s never met? I don’t feel comfortable risking telling him about them without having a better idea of what his answer would be.
I start the car and head toward Aunt Molly’s house to pick up Leo. At least I have a few more weeks to figure this out, to find a solution that doesn’t involve disappearing in the middle of the night like a criminal, though I haven’t entirely ruled that out either.
As I drive through the familiar streets of Pacific Beach, I catch myself looking in the rearview mirror more often than usual, checking to see if anyone is following me. Has Radmir decided to investigate my life outside his estate?
The paranoia is new and unwelcome, but I can’t ignore the feeling time is running out faster than I anticipated. Every day I stay increases the risk of discovery. Every day I don’t leave makes it harder to build a new life somewhere else.
By the time I reach Aunt Molly’s house, I’ve made a decision. I’ll give myself two more weeks to find something—anything—that will let me support Leo and the baby somewhere far from San Diego. If nothing turns up by then, I’ll have to consider more desperate measures.
Leo runs to the car with his backpack bouncing and a huge smile on his face. “Mommy, Aunt Molly made cookies, and I helped.”
“That sounds amazing, baby.” I help him into his car seat, trying to match his enthusiasm despite the weight pressing down on my chest. “Tell me all about it.” I turn and wave to my aunt, who stands in the doorway to make sure I’ve got him safely in the car before waving back and shutting it a moment later.
I start driving home as he chatters about measuring ingredients, and scooping cookie dough. I catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror and grimace. I look tired, stressed, and more fragile than I want to admit. I also look determined though. Time is running out, but I’m not ready to give up yet.
12
Radmir
The next day, I position my car across the street from the estate’s staff exit, engine running, waiting for Danielle to finish her shift. This surveillance feels different from the security measures we take for business threats. This is personal, and the distinction makes me uncomfortable in ways I don’t want to examine.
At exactly four-fifteen, she emerges from the service entrance, moving with the same purposeful stride I’ve watched dozens of times through security monitors. Today, I need to see where that stride takes her when she thinks no one is watching.
I maintain a careful distance as she drives through the residential neighborhoods of La Jolla, then heads east toward Pacific Beach. Her driving is cautious. She can’t afford traffic tickets or accidents, clearly. She parks outside a small preschool building painted in cheerful blues and yellows, called Little Scholars Academy, according to the sign. I park half a blockaway, positioning myself where I can see the entrance without being obvious.
For ten minutes, nothing happens. Parents begin gathering outside the building, some chatting in small groups while others check phones or stare at the entrance with the patient expression of people used to waiting. Danielle stands slightly apart from the others, checking her watch repeatedly.
Then the doors open, and children pour out in the chaotic way that only preschool dismissal can produce. I watch Danielle’s entire posture change as she scans the crowd, tension melting into anticipation.
A small boy with curly dark hair breaks free from the crowd and runs toward her. Even from this distance, I can see the joy in his movement, and the way he launches himself at her with complete trust that she’ll catch him. She does, lifting him slightly off the ground in a hug that speaks to bone-deep love.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as I watch their interaction. The way she smooths his hair, how he chatters animatedly while she listens with complete attention, and the unconscious way she checks his backpack and takes his hand as they walk toward her car reveals this isn’t a casual relationship or a babysitting arrangement. This is a mother with her child.
The boy can’t be more than three or four years old. From this distance, I can’t make out his facial features clearly, but something about his movements and his general build sends an odd recognition through my system.
I grab my phone and quickly snap several photos as they approach her car. The boy turns slightly, giving me a partial profile view, and I zoom in as much as the camera allows.It’s still not clear enough to see details, but enough to confirm what I suspected. This child is important to Danielle. Important enough that she structures her entire work schedule around his school hours.
They drive away, and I follow at a careful distance through surface streets until they reach a modest apartment complex in Pacific Beach. The building is older but well-maintained, housing working families who need to balance affordability with safety.
I park around the corner and walk back to where I can observe without being seen. Danielle helps the boy out of the car, but even from this better vantage point, I still can’t get a clear view of his face as they move toward the building entrance.
Three or four years old. The timing would be about right if he’s mine. The possibility sends a surge of possessiveness through me that surprises me with its intensity. The idea of Danielle having another man’s child, raising someone else’s son while keeping mine hidden, makes my jaw clench with irrational jealousy.
