CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kacey
When I came to the world was a bit fuzzy, but so long as I wasn’t in water anymore, I was okay. My brothers grasped my hands in theirs when they realized I was awake, stroking my palm and my hair.
“Baby,” said Logan. “How are you feeling?”
“Honey,” said Lance. “Why didn’t you tell us you were pregnant?”
The truth was, I’d only recently found out about the pregnancy myself and was still deciding the best way to tell them. I wasn’t sure how they’d react. I mean, we’d never used protection, always bareback, and there had been a lot of fucking in recent months. So it was only natural that I’d get pregnant, right? After all, I was a fertile nineteen year-old woman.
Nonetheless, I was still nervous and had literally been in the midst of a home pregnancy test when the doorman buzzed, announcing that a “Patricia” was downstairs. I was confused. I’d heard my brothers speaking about Patricia occasionally, but only in hushed tones when they thought I couldn’t hear. I’d figured she was a problem employee or something of that sort.
So I was wary about letting her come up to Lance’s apartment. Instead, I’d walked downstairs, figuring she couldn’t do any harm to me in the lobby.
And the woman had been charming, vivacious, even friendly, grabbing my arm and making buddy-buddy. My suspicions were raised, but she was prepared.
“You’re Kacey, right?” she purred.
“Yes,” I said tentatively. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I’m a friend of Logan’s,” she said confidentially. “And I just wanted to show you something.” She whipped an old newspaper from her designer purse, the headlines screaming, “CURVY BLONDE DROWNS AT DYKE POND.”
All the blood drained from my face as I scanned the story. Evidently, Logan and Lance had been involved with a girl named Kathryn long ago, who had died when Logan drove a car off a bridge into a lake. The worst part was that he hadn’t reported the accident for several hours. Instead, he’d wandered around the neighborhood, talking gibberish to himself, instead of calling for help from a neighbor or dialing 911.
I didn’t know what to think. The incident had been ruled an accident, but Patricia tried to persuade me otherwise.
“Come on, get in the car and I’ll take you to Dyke Bridge,” she’d said. “It’s a walking overpass, more of a dock even, you can see for yourself.”
Like a dummy, I’d gotten in, cradling my belly, unable to still the crazy whirl of my thoughts. Was the father of my child a murderer?
The drive started off okay. Patricia chatted amiably about shopping, her life, how she knew Lance and Logan. But something was fishy. When I asked her why she was driving Logan’s car, she’d brushed it off, saying Logan let her borrow it once in a while. That couldn’t be right. I knew Logan got antsy when anyone drove his car, even parking valets. And that wasn’t all. Patricia knew too many details about me, like the fact that I was a dancer at the Donkey Club.
And as we got closer to the bridge, I realized I’d made a huge mistake. The woman was starting to jabber, her manner becoming overblown and crazy, her words fast, almost manic, eyes rolling in her head.
“Patricia,” I said calmly, “why don’t we stop for a bathroom break? I could use one.”
“We’re almost there,” she snapped.
“But there won’t be any bathrooms at the bridge,” I said reasonably. “I need to go now.”
And she turned on me, the bitch showing her true colors. Before I realized it, she’d slammed the childproof locks into place and picked up speed, barreling down the highway at 80 miles an hour. I saw the sign for “Dyke Bridge” whiz past, and then the bridge itself with the lake beyond.
Suddenly, I realized what she intended to do. Slowly, I put my hand on a crowbar I’d seen under the passenger seat and gripped it. When the car plunged off the bridge into the water, I immediately smashed the window, managing to extricate myself from the vehicle and swim to the dock. Panting and exhausted, I’d hauled myself up, watching as the car sank slowly into the water, only bubbles showing where it’d once been.
I couldn’t move, I was too tired from the frenetic escape, and when voices approached, a woman’s voice asking, “Ma’am, ma’am, are you okay?” I let the black take over, dropping off into unconsciousness.