Maggie

 

Maggie sat in bed reading, as she often did for much of the day.

 

Since she usually had nowhere to go, no one to see or talk to, no internet to surf, and no real desire to be around her parents, she generally confined herself to her room. There was a TV, but since it was the middle of the day, she knew nothing would be on except trashy talk shows and soap operas. Her walls were lined with books—she'd read most of them dozens of times since childhood, and now she was flipping the dog-eared pages in her copy of Alexandre Dumas' The Man in the Iron Mask.

 

But even though it was one of her favorite stories, she found that this time, she could barely focus. She was too nervous and excited about her part in Brock's plan.

 

It seemed like it would work, and based on Brock's confident tone when he outlined it for her, she had no problem believing he'd executed similar schemes on countless occasions and they'd all gone smoothly. He'd assured her if it were truly dangerous, he wouldn't dream of involving her. And she trusted him, mostly because of the trust he'd shown in her by confiding that he wasn't who he'd pretended to be.

 

Still, she'd never done anything like this before, and the thought of getting caught gave her a scary thrill so intense that it rendered her light-headed and nauseous. There were times when seriously considering the risks—and the rewards—made her feel like she might actually faint. If they pulled it off, her father would be utterly ruined, and she'd never have to see him or her mother ever again.

 

But if they failed...

 

The photos of Daniel floated to the surface of her mind, no matter how much she tried to push them back down. Brock's fate would surely be something like that. Would her punishment be the same? Lighter, since she was a member of the family?

 

Or even worse, since she'd betrayed it?

 

Maggie tried to bury herself in the book again, but no matter what position she was in, her body didn't feel comfortable. Her own skin seemed strange to her somehow, like her body belonged to someone else—she tried to make sense of these vague and disquieting sensations, but understanding seemed just beyond her reach. Jitters crawled through her body in waves like armies of insects, and there were frequent, intense cramps in her abdomen. It felt like she was getting sick, but she was sure these were just symptoms of anxiety.

 

The book brushed against her breasts as she shifted positions again, and she was surprised to discover they were sore. She frowned. Had Brock pinched them or bitten them the last time he'd made love to her? She couldn't remember, but even if he had, it seemed odd that they'd still feel so tender.

 

And the more she thought about it, the more she was sure he hadn't actually touched her breasts at all.

 

There was something else, too. Ever since Brock had come through her window three nights ago, it seemed like her parents were looking at her differently. Her father barely spoke to her, and her mother barely looked at her. It was another reason she'd sequestered herself in her room so completely. Their eyes seemed hard, flat, and suspicious whenever she was in the room.

 

But surely, they couldn't know what Brock was planning, or that Maggie was involved? If they did, they'd have confronted her about it instead of giving her the cold shoulder.

 

Wouldn't they?

 

Maggie shook her head, trying to clear it. These thoughts were tying her brain in knots.

 

No...not her brain. Her stomach.

 

She tossed the book aside and got up, running to the bathroom down the hall. She barely made it to the toilet before she threw up, sinking to her knees on the chilly porcelain tiles.

 

As she flushed the toilet and brushed her teeth, she took this as confirmation that she was coming down with something. That made sense—stress, both positive and negative, could lower the immune system enough for some stomach bug to slip in. And between her delight at the prospect of running away with Brock and her dread of being caught, this was definitely the most stress she'd ever felt in her life.

 

Then she made a mental list of her symptoms, leaned over, and vomited again.

 

No, she thought. No, no, no. This can't be happening. Not now. Not in the middle of all this.

 

Maggie had often fantasized about having a baby—in a different world, as a different person from a different family. The father would be someone she chose for herself, who she loved with all her heart. They'd give their baby all of their adoration and attention, filling its life with joy. They'd play with it and hold it and kiss it and listen to it, and they'd do anything to help it make its dreams come true, no matter what. Deep down, Maggie believed the only real way to erase the damage her parents had done to her would be to ensure that when she had a child of her own, it would be happy, and free to live its own life.

 

But in those fantasies, she was married to the baby's father, and her life was stable and sunny. In real life, she was involved in a conspiracy to defraud her own father, and she was about to run off into a perilous and uncertain future with a wandering con man.

 

The circumstances were hardly ideal.

 

And when she told Brock, what then? Given the choices he'd made in life, she had a hard time believing he'd be delighted by the news. It was unlikely that someone who made a living roaming the country and scamming people would be eager to settle down and start a family. What if he decided to leave her behind once the con was over?

 

She thought of the look in his eyes when he'd told her that he came from a background that was similar to hers. She wished she had pressed him for more information. It would make it easier for her to believe that he really would take her away from all this, even if he knew she were...

 

God, could she even bear to think the word, let alone say it?

 

...pregnant. Even if he knew she were pregnant.

 

Stop being silly, she chided herself. Even you don't know you're pregnant. Not really. The signs seem to point to “yes,” but plenty of other women have probably been wrong before.

 

For her part of the plot against her father, Maggie would have to sneak out of the house anyway. Not easy, but not wholly impossible, either—she'd managed it a time or two, when it was important. Before she went to the address Brock had written down for her, she could duck into a drugstore and buy a pregnancy test.

 

Then she'd be sure. Then she could tell him, if she needed to.

 

Maggie washed her mouth out, splashed some cold water on her face, and returned to her bedroom. As she passed her parents' room, her mother glared out at her for a moment before slamming the door.

 

She got back into bed, picked up the book, and stared at the words on the pages without reading them.