Page 19 of Ghost's Obsession

His jaw ticks, but he nods. Slowly. “You sure?”

I force a smile. “Positive.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. But he lets it go. He gives me a long, steady look, then turns and starts putting away the lumber by the back wall, saying nothing else. And maybe that should be a relief, but it’s not.

It’s guilt. Heavy and hot in the center of my chest. He’s trying to help. And I’m lying to him. But I can’t risk what the truth might cost me.

***

The cot creaks under me as I shift for the third time in ten minutes. The garage is still dim, lit only by the faint glow of the portable space heater in the middle of the floor.

Ghost is back in the house now. I heard the door click shut fifteen minutes ago. Not wanting to be alone, I almost followed him. Almost knocked just to say something, anything. But what would I say?

Hey, so, I’m pregnant with my abusive ex’s baby and he’s messaging me threats to get me to come back to him. Hope that’s not a dealbreaker?

That’s not anything a boss wants to hear from his employee.

I exhale, long and quiet, pressing my hand lightly to my stomach. A part of me wants to tell him even though he might throw me out.

I keep thinking that he might let me stay. Maybe he’d even step up and try to protect me. And that’s what scares me the most. He’d be pitting himself against a narcissist with money and connections.

But I’d also be worried for myself, because once someone starts protecting you, they start making choices for you. And I’ve only just started remembering what it feels like to have true freedom again.

I close my eyes and picture him standing in the doorway this morning, arms crossed, eyes soft and yearning to know what’s going on with me. He already knows something’s wrong. And maybe, deep down, I want him to figure it out. I want someone to take the decision out of my hands. But what if I chance it and hethrows me out? I could lose everything on a wild gamble hoping to get help.

Chapter 7

Ghost

I’m up before the sun, again. I sit at the kitchen table with a cup of black coffee that’s already gone cold, staring out the window like it’s going to tell me something I don’t already know.

I have a photograph of Heather’s pregnancy test strip showing on my phone, which is lying on the table in front of me. She left it on her bathroom counter, almost like she wanted me to see it, so I snapped a pic of it. Creepy, I know. But I couldn’t resist.

Now everything makes perfect sense. She’s my employee, but in the short time we’ve known each other she’s also become my friend and I’m hurt that she didn’t feel like she could tell me. However, standing by and doing nothing while she suffers isn’t an option, so I need to figure out a way to broach the subject with her. I guess she’s worried I might fire her, so I need her to know that’s not gonna happen.

Heather always wakes up early, eager to get to work. Not only that, but she also puts in a full day’s work. She loves her job and actually wants to get shit done. Or at least she used to. Lately, she’s been moving slower. And now I know why, it’s because she’s pregnant. She clearly didn’t know when she took this job, that pregnancy test I found suggests she just found out herself.

I think there’s more going on with her than just this pregnancy. Something in her eyes seems almost fearful whenshe looks out towards the road, like she’s holding her breath or running from something.

I lean back in my chair, run a hand down my face, letting all this new knowledge wash over me.

I know what she looks like when she’s tired. I know what she looks like when she’s focused, frustrated, overloaded. This is none of those things. This is fear. She’s too scared to tell me about the baby. That’s what I’m getting out of this. It hurts my heart that as nice as I’ve been to her, she still doesn’t think she can trust me with her secret.

I told myself I’d give her space. Let her come to me. But I’m starting to think that’s a mistake. Space lets things fester. It encourages people to bury their secrets even deeper.

I glance at the clock. 6:13 AM.

I stand up, grab my hoodie off the back of the chair, and head for the door. I take the long drive out to our local diner and pick up breakfast. My head is filled with Heather and that baby all the way there and back. I drive with urgency because I need to get back to her. I need eyes on. I need to hear her voice and look her in the eye and confirm that she made it through the night.

By the time I reach the garage, the lights are on, and she’s already working. I see her standing by the folding table, staring down at the floor plans with the kind of intent focus I could never manage. She doesn’t hear me come in right away. Doesn’t jump either, which worries me more. It’s like she’s no longer aware of her surroundings.

I don’t come empty-handed this time. “Brought breakfast,” I say, setting the bag and two waters on the table. “Toast and apple slices. Nothing fancy.”

She looks up. Blinks once. Then smiles, too quick for it to be genuine. “You didn’t have to bring me food.”

“I did it because I wanted to,” I grumble.

I tear open the bag and pull out the food. Set her plate down in front of her like it’s nothing.

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