Page 112 of The Wrong Monster

His response, when it comes a few moments later, stings almost as much as Ariadna’s earlier accusation: You’re back?

He knows I’m back. He’s the one who organized the SUV to pick us up from the helipad, who has bolstered security around the lake house since my return. I don’t bother answering; my people need to be reminded of who I am, just as much as I needed reminding, apparently.

As I lean back in my chair, my phone vibrates again.

For one stupid second, I expect Matilda. It isn’t.

I stare at the screen, annoyed by my own disappointment. It’s confirmation that the evidence disposal contract has gone through, and a list of dates, times, and locations in shorthand arranging for everything. A payment of $50K scheduled to go through this upcoming Tuesday, disposal Tuesday night, and the final payment of another $80K Wednesday morning.

Ariadna was right about one thing: something has changed.

And I need to get it under control. History is filled with men whose downfall became the women they were obsessed with.

I have no doubt, after the last few days, that I am utterly and unapologetically obsessed with Matilda Pierce.

That has to die.

Chapter 31

Matilda

I sit perfectly still in the examination room, hands folded in my lap, and stare at the blank wall.

Logic is easier than emotion.

The urgent care is the third one on the list I found online. Not the closest or the most convenient. I deliberately chose one far enough from the lake house that it wouldn’t be immediately obvious if Vasily somehow discovered I’d gone to a doctor.

The place is clean, quiet, and aggressively ordinary. Obviously under-funded based on the outdated furniture and posters. The only sound outside the room is a child coughing and sniffling in the waiting area.

A medical assistant brought me to a room and took my vitals: blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. Then they asked for a urine sample.

Now I’m alone. Waiting.

I check the clock on the wall. Then my phone. Then the clock again. They’re running twenty minutes late, but that’s not exactly a surprise.

The door opens, and an older man walks in carrying a tablet. He looks tired, slightly annoyed, and unimpressed by whatever crisis has brought me here. What are the most common things he deals with this far north, in a ski tourist town? Probably drunk teenagers and concussions.

His nametag reads “Dr. Trymulack,” and his scrubs look well-worn, as if they’re his only pair. He sits on the wheeled stool. Sighs.

“You’re pregnant.”

For several seconds, I simply stare at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Pregnant.” He glances down at the tablet, as if this isn’t a life-altering statement. “Your urine test is positive.”

My brain seems to disconnect from the rest of my body.

Pregnant. Pregnant?!

Of course, it was a possibility. I’m a woman after all, still young, but…

“I have the implant, though.” Late nights at the office, long court days, and a tight schedule make it hard to commit to a daily pill.

His gray eyebrows rise creating a look that is almost amusement, but mostly he just looks tired.

“Your doctor should’ve told you they’re not 100% effective.”