Buch lesen: «Protecting Her Child»
“You need to be tested for your baby’s sake,” Pete said.
Meredith shook her head, not ready to absorb what he was saying. Every action and reaction in the past seven months had been to protect her child.
Now a stranger on a street corner tells her about a woman to whom she may be related having a disease that could affect the precious life growing within her.
Her husband had been murdered. The men who killed him were after her, and some guy wants to compound the situation?
She couldn’t carry any more weight around on her shoulders.
DEBBY GIUSTI
is a medical technologist who loves working with test tubes and petri dishes almost as much as she loves to write. Growing up as an army brat, Debby met and married her husband—then a captain in the army—at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Together they traveled the world, raised three wonderful army brats of their own and have now settled in Atlanta, Georgia, where Debby spins tales of suspense that touch the heart and soul.
Contact Debby through her Web site, www.DebbyGiusti.com, e-mail debby@debbygiusti.com or write c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
Protecting Her Child
Debby Giusti
MILLS & BOON
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Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.
—Jeremiah 1:5
This book is dedicated to my dear friend,
Pat Rosenbach, who first told me about VHL,
and to her friend, Eva, who had
Von Hippel-Lindau disease.
Although fiction, I hope the story has captured the
courage and determination of all who battle VHL.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
Meredith Lassiter’s throat ran dry and her pulse raced as the wind outside whistled through the tall pine trees. The old house moaned in protest, its creaks sounding like footsteps in the night. Ever so slowly, she eased back the edge of the curtain and peered into the darkness.
The steel-gray pickup truck sat like a vulture at the end of the desolate beach road. Tinted windows in the extended cab and covered camper obscured her view of the thugs she knew were hunkered down inside.
Men whose intimidation had forced her to flee her home six months ago and hide in this rental unit where no one asked questions about a woman on the run. Depraved, amoral men who had killed her husband and who now planned to kill her.
Meredith glanced at the table where sections of the Georgia Coastal News lay scattered. Even in the darkened house, she could read the headline. Suspect Arrested in Payroll Loan Scam. Two additional men sought for questioning. The article mentioned a possible connection with her husband’s murder.
Why had the overzealous reporter added Meredith’s name in the same paragraph with the unidentified police informant who had recently come forward?
Be not afraid. The verse from scripture had comforted Meredith in the past. Tonight, the words did little to calm her pulse or the pinpricks of anxiety that scurried along her spine.
The door of the truck swung open, and a man stepped onto the sandy road. He spoke to someone inside the vehicle before he pointed to the tiny cottage that had been her latest refuge.
Her heart crashed against her chest.
Run!
Meredith stumbled into the bedroom and snatched the overnight tote from the closet, a bag she’d packed in case this night ever arrived.
Adrenaline and fear pushed her forward. She reached for her purse and threw the strap over her shoulder. Three steps to the kitchen, and she was at the door. Her hand touched the knob.
She paused for half a second, then raced back to where the baby quilt lay on the couch. Grabbing the fabric she’d patiently stitched over the last few months, she retraced her steps and unlatched the back door.
Meredith peered into the darkness of the backyard. Seeing no one, she slipped into the night.
Pete Worth adjusted the ocular on the microscope until the leukocytes and neutrophils swarmed into view. Eve Townsend’s blood smear confirmed that the woman’s condition had deteriorated since her last lab appointment at Magnolia Medical.
Exactly as Pete had expected. Being right didn’t prevent the sadness that slipped like a dark pall over his shoulders.
He steeled himself to the reality VHL patients eventually had to face. Von Hippel-Lindau disease. Seemed the more bizarre the name, the more convoluted the illness. Just like the twisted tumors that grew within Eve’s body.
He hated VHL as much as he was intrigued by the secrets it held. If scientists could understand how to block the blood flow to the tangled cluster of capillaries that formed the tumors, they’d understand how to retard the growth of other malignancies as well.
In time. Pete sighed. Something Eve didn’t have.
He glanced up as Denise Ryan, Magnolia Medical’s secretary, entered the lab and headed for his workstation. Denise had a big heart as well as an insatiable interest in the personal lives of the technologists on staff.
“Eve’s in the waiting room,” Denise announced as she neared. “She has a four o’clock appointment with Dr. Davis and wants to hand carry her lab results to his office.”
“I thought she was Dr. Fleming’s patient.”
“She was. But the VHL Institute encouraged her to switch physicians on Sheila Hudson’s recommendation. Remember, Sheila drove her son over from Savannah to be treated by Davis.”
Pete raised his brow. “Brice died eight months ago, blind and riddled with tumors. That’s hardly a favorable recommendation.”
Denise sighed. “A tragedy for sure. Still, if I were Eve, I’d try anything or any physician who offered hope. Which is probably why she made the switch. Besides, she told me Davis was a close friend of her parents. Since their deaths, she’s stayed in touch.”
Davis’s treatment protocol was costly and questionable. Pete hated hearing that Eve had succumbed to the hype. She needed hope, but not false hope.
“Tell her I’ll send the results to his office electronically.”
Denise’s eyes softened. She touched his arm. “You know Eve’s here to see you.”
Pete glanced back at the blood smear. Cells didn’t make comments he chose to ignore.
“Eve considers you the son she never had,” Denise continued, oblivious to the emotions that swept through Pete, his eyes trained on the array of cells. “If you weren’t so fiercely independent and focused on making your own way, you’d accept her love.”
“And her money?”
“That’s something your father would have said.”
She was right, but then, Denise had known his dad.
Despite working for Eve’s parents and living in the caretaker’s lodge on their vast estate, Pete’s father had been bitterly vocal about his disregard for the wealthy Townsend family. A by-product of the jealousy he felt after Pete’s mother’s untimely death, no doubt.
“I’ve got her lab slips.” Pete pointed to the printouts, lying next to the microscope. “Tell Eve I’ll be out after I finish her CBC.”
As Denise left the lab, Pete turned his attention to Eve’s test results. Chemistry profile, urinalysis, CBC.
An unexpected and unwelcome lump filled his throat. Clinical lab tests didn’t lie. One kidney surgically removed two years ago. Renal cell carcinoma in the remaining organ. Dialysis might help initially, but the eventual prognosis was kidney failure and death.
Grabbing the slips off the counter, Pete squared his shoulders and walked purposefully toward the waiting room. His resolve melted when he caught sight of Eve.
Fragile. Frail.
His gut tightened. This was the part of medicine he didn’t like.
She sat on the edge of the straight-back chair, her arms draped with one of the quilted stoles she stitched to occupy her fingers while the disease ate through her body.
Forty-two on her next birthday, she was meticulously groomed in silk pants and a matching jacket. Her hair and tasteful makeup accentuated her green eyes and high cheekbones, camouflaging the sallow skin and pale complexion hidden underneath.
Critically ill, she looked older than her years, yet her smile when she glanced up and saw Pete was anything but melancholy. For half a heartbeat, he longed to go back in time to when he was a little boy wrapped in her embrace.
Clearing his throat, he forced the thought to flee and held out the lab slips. “Denise said you’re seeing Dr. Davis today.”
Eve raised her brow as she took the forms. “From your tone of voice, I take it you don’t think I should have changed physicians?”
“You don’t need my approval, Eve.”
“But I value your opinion.”
“Evidently you value Sheila’s more.”
Her face clouded momentarily, making him regret his hasty retort.
“Sheila founded the Institute as a source of information for VHL patients and their families. I trust her judgment, Pete.”
“Of course you do.” He softened. This wasn’t the time to open old wounds.
When he had started working at Magnolia Medical a few months back, he knew Eve would be one of the patients the outstanding research and clinical lab facility served. What he hadn’t expected was the raw emotion he felt each time he saw her.
“Sheila stopped by to see me when she came to Atlanta last week,” Eve said.
“How’s she doing?”
“Managing to put up a good front. Brice was twenty-one, but she still considered him her baby.” Eve shook her head and tried to smile. “I remember when she told me she was pregnant. It was at your fifth birthday party.”
The extravagant event Eve had thrown for him, open to the estate staff and their children. “A celebration your parents weren’t happy about when they returned from Europe,” he reminded her.
“My parents didn’t approve of a lot of things I did.”
“Like befriending the caretaker’s kid?”
“You needed love, Pete, and I needed a child to dote on. Seems we were good for each other in spite of what they thought.”
“Bucking authority is never easy. I owe you my thanks.”
“You don’t owe me anything. You know that. Although I wish you’d let me help. At least with funding for your research.”
He held up his hand, palm out. “Eve, please. We’ve had this conversation before.”
Her purse sat on the floor. In an obvious attempt to change the subject, she bent and searched the contents before pulling out a photograph. “I told you I wanted to find my daughter. The private investigator I hired located her.”
Eve had always been forthright about her past. Unmarried and pregnant at seventeen, her only recourse—or so her parents had insisted—was to put the baby up for adoption. Struggling with the pain of giving up her child, Eve had found comfort in the Lord.
A testament to His healing grace, she often claimed.
Not that Pete fell for the religious hype. Eve could keep her God. He would depend on his own abilities to get through tough times.
She held up the photo. A bleached blonde with widespread eyes, flat nose and an underdeveloped upper lip.
Pete stared at the picture. “I thought the lawyer who handled the adoption died years ago.”
“That’s right. But the P.I. located the records. The Collins family, who adopted my baby, lived in Augusta at that time. They named her Dixie. She currently lives in Craddock Sound.”
“About eighty miles south of Fort Stewart.”
“You know the area?”
“I spent three years at Fort Stewart with the army after my tour in the Middle East.”
Eve averted her eyes. Absent during that portion of his life, she didn’t comment, but returned instead to the subject at hand.
“Sam and Hazel Collins received their baby girl on November sixteenth, the day I delivered. Dixie’s driver’s license and social security card verify she’s who she says she is.” Eve pointed to the woman in the photo. “I’m sure Dixie Collins is my daughter.”
Who doesn’t look a thing like you, Pete wanted to add. Besides, there was something unsettling about the blonde.
The photo’s resolution wasn’t the best, still…?
He had never known Eve to touch alcohol, yet the woman who claimed to be Eve’s daughter had the facial characteristics of a person born to a mother who drank excessively. Fetal alcohol syndrome.
Not that he’d mention it to Eve. Not now. Not until he learned more about the unlikely daughter. A phony driver’s license and social security card were easy enough to come by. The vast fortune Eve’s rightful heir stood to inherit could make a number of people claim to be the missing daughter.
“Of course, my attorneys insist on DNA testing to confirm that she’s my daughter.”
Thank goodness for lawyers.
Eve glanced at her watch, then back at Pete. “I need to head to Dr. Davis’s office before the afternoon traffic.”
For a moment, she searched his face as if she, too, were remembering the past. Then she adjusted the stole around her shoulders, grabbed her purse and stood.
“You lived on the estate for twelve years, Pete. It’s still your home. Don’t be a stranger.”
Flashing a smile that touched the depths of his soul, she walked away, her heels clicking against the polished tile floor.
A chunk of his defensive armor began to crumble. He pulled in a fortifying breath. Eve and her parents had turned their backs on him years ago. Despite their actions, he wanted to help Eve and people who suffered the way she did, but relating to cells in a petri dish was different to dealing with someone face-to-face. Bottom line, he wouldn’t open himself to rejection again.
A door slammed. Magnolia Medical’s research department manager walked toward him, a file folder in her left hand.
“I had a call from Jamal Washington.” Veronica Edwards’s smile grew as she approached. “He wanted to brag about his favorite graduate student. Your use of antiangiogenic drugs to stop blood flow to VHL tumors is impressive, Pete.”
His cheeks burned. As much as he appreciated Veronica’s praise, he needed help with his funding more than adulation.
“I took your request to the board. Magnolia Medical can provide some assistance.” She opened the folder and handed him a form with a five-digit figure highlighted in the top paragraph. “A start, although I know it’s not enough to cover all your research. No doubt, the VHL Institute will provide additional support.”
“I’m not applying for their grant.”
“Eve isn’t the Institute’s only contributor. There are others.”
“Whose donations pale in comparison. I won’t accept her help.”
“Look, Pete, I don’t know the whole story. Denise mentioned something about your father. But whatever happened was a long time ago.”
“Please, Veronica.”
She held up her hand. “Just don’t let your pride get in the way of saving lives. Applications for the Institute grant are due Tuesday. At least think it over. I’m giving you Monday off so you can use the long weekend to weigh your options.”
Without waiting for his response, Veronica turned back to the lab, leaving Pete to stare out the large windows that overlooked the parking lot.
His eyes focused on Eve scurrying toward her car. Her shoulders slumped forward ever so slightly, as if the effort of walking was almost more than her sickly body could manage.
Heaviness filled Pete’s heart. His father had cared more about the estate grounds than he had for the little boy who yearned to be loved. Eve had been Pete’s refuge. She’d showered him with affection. As a child, he’d responded in kind.
Love, connection, a sense of family was what they both had needed then and, if the truth were known, probably needed now.
Although Pete never told Eve, he’d gone into medical research because of her, hoping to find a cure for the disease that would eventually take her life. But he couldn’t change Eve’s lab results, and no matter how quickly his research proceeded, he wouldn’t find answers that would help her in time. Yet he could ensure that she didn’t give her heart and her fortune to someone who didn’t legally have a claim to either.
Craddock Sound? He had three days. Enough time to do a little reconnaissance. Hopefully, Pete would find out the truth about Eve’s supposed daughter.
TWO
Pete downed the last drops of the thirty-two-ounce cola he’d bought at the gas station as he turned off the highway and glanced at his BlackBerry sitting on the console. Thank goodness for mobile technology and the fact that Dixie Collins’s phone number had been listed in the phone book, along with her address. MapQuest provided the missing link.
For the last two hours, Pete had sat parked down a lonely stretch of back road in sight of Dixie’s modest home. Hurry up and wait. Just like in the army.
From the number of times she had stepped outside to use her cell phone, Pete wondered if something were going down.
He needed patience. And another cola.
His watch read 11:45 p.m. Time for Dixie to get some shut-eye.
Pete wouldn’t mind catching a few winks himself.
He pushed the seat back to its full extension and stretched his legs. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he was just about to nod off when he heard an engine. Startled, he straightened.
A Lincoln Town Car pulled into the driveway. Green body, white vinyl top, mid-nineties vintage.
The driver stepped onto the pavement. Six-two, if not a tad taller, and at least 250 pounds of muscle. He wore his hair pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck and was dressed in a dark T-shirt and jeans.
Dixie ran to greet him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, the two embraced and shared a lingering kiss.
Follow your gut, Pete’s first sergeant used to remind him. Right now, his gut was screaming that something wasn’t on the up-and-up about this late-night rendezvous.
Once the loving couple unwound, they climbed into the Lincoln and headed out along the two-lane road.
Pete gave them enough leeway to keep from attracting attention before he followed the taillights that cut through the night.
Staying clear of the main highway, Dixie and her boyfriend headed north, meandering along the coastal contours. Eventually, the two-lane road veered east into a narrow spit of black desolation.
If they’d made Pete, the lonely road could be a trap. But Pete felt no sense of unease or warning.
The taillights turned, and Pete increased his speed. He couldn’t lose them now.
An outline of homes sat nestled along a coastal inlet. A plaque erected on the side of the road welcomed him to Refuge Bay.
Driving on the main thoroughfare of the small community, Pete passed two gas stations, both closed, a corner mom-and-pop grocery and an all-night diner, where three patrons sat at a booth by the window.
On the far side of town, a long, shingled building was perched at the edge of the water. A sign out front read REFUGE LODGE.
At the next intersection, the Lincoln turned inland. Were they going in a circle? Or had he been spotted?
The boyfriend didn’t look like the type of guy who enjoyed being followed. Hopefully, this cat-and-mouse game they’d been playing wouldn’t end up with Pete in the trap.
Not a good thought.
As if in response, the Lincoln stopped short by a tiny bungalow.
Pete cut his lights and turned onto a path that led behind a clump of pines. He killed the engine, crawled out of his Jeep and watched the guy push open the rear door of the small frame house. Dixie followed him inside. Lights flipped on from room to room.
Hoping to catch a glimpse of what was happening, Pete circled to the far side of the wooden structure and wormed his way through the thick shrubbery until he could peer in the window.
The man stood over a small table, his face twisted into a deep frown. A newspaper lay open. He shoved it aside, then lifted a square of cloth and studied it for a moment before tucking it into his pocket. Evidently satisfied with what he found, he turned abruptly, motioned to Dixie and headed for the door.
If Pete left the cover of the bushes now, he’d be spotted. Better to hole up until they climbed into the car and started down the road. With a little luck, Pete would be able to backtrack and pick up their tail.
Hunkered down in the bushes, Pete listened for the sound of an engine. All he heard were tree frogs against the backdrop of the distant surf.
Two doors slammed and an engine purred into gear.
Pete climbed from the bramble as the Lincoln drove out of sight, probably heading back to Dixie’s house. He glanced at the bungalow. Torn between seeing what had prompted the twosome to drive so far in the middle of the night and wanting to follow them, he crossed the road and stepped into a small kitchen. Neat. Clean. A bowl of fruit sat on the counter. An open pantry next to the back door held a few cans of vegetables, a box of oatmeal and a jar of pickles.
The design on the linoleum was old and faded but without a spot or crumb. The floorboards creaked as he walked into the living–dining room combination where a love seat and rocker edged a braided rug. A wooden crate, decorated with a collection of seashells, served as a coffee table. Two folding chairs and a card table sat in the dining area.
Swatches of fabric that had drawn the guy’s interest lay on the table in various pastel patterns of tiny, delicate hearts and crosses. Pete drew closer, overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity. The intricate motif looked like something Eve would create.
Glancing into the bedroom, he smelled a fresh, floral fragrance as sweet as honeysuckle. Had to be a woman’s room.
Blow-up mattress on the floor. Rumpled bedding, the beige blanket and pink top sheet thrown aside.
Had someone or something interrupted her sleep? Not Dixie and her friend. The house hadn’t been occupied when they had entered through the back door.
A photo on the floor next to the bed caught Pete’s attention. A woman with shoulder-length raven hair and green eyes the color of the ocean looked lovingly at a man, perhaps two inches taller, who held her close.
For an instant, Pete longed for something as real in his life.
Abruptly, he turned away. Whoever lived here didn’t need her privacy violated.
Stepping into the kitchen, he spied a stack of bills on the counter addressed to Meredith Lassiter. Probably the gal in the photo.
He glanced at the open pantry, noting the black hinges attached to the doorframe.
Odd.
He retraced his steps to the bedroom.
A couple of pairs of slacks and a blouse hung on the rack in the closet. Slippers were neatly placed on the floor below.
He hadn’t noticed earlier, but the closet door had been removed from its hinges, just like the pantry.
Some type of space-saving decorating trick?
Then Pete left the house, the lights still ablaze to warn the woman, should she return before the break of day. Tomorrow he’d make more inquiries in town. Hopefully, he’d learn why Dixie and her friend had driven through the night to break into this bungalow.
A second question needed to be answered as well.
Who was Meredith Lassiter?
“Are you a policeman?”
Not the response Pete expected from the shopkeeper.
“No, ma’am, but I am trying to find Meredith Lassiter.” He paused, searching for a way to ease the concern he saw in the woman’s eyes. Gray hair, mid-sixties, she continued to stare at him.
“I’m a friend of her mother’s.” Pete needed the woman’s cooperation. “One of Meredith’s neighbors said she teaches quilting classes here at your store.”
“Taught. Past tense. She’s missed her last three classes and hasn’t answered her cell in days.”
The friend-of-the-mother angle must have worked, although annoyance was still evident in the shopkeeper’s voice. Hopefully aimed at Meredith and not at him.
“I left a message, reminding her that she’s got a check to pick up,” the woman continued. “With the economy and all, I don’t have to tell you money’s tight.”
He thought of the lack of funding for his research. “Yes, ma’am.”
The woman shrugged and worried her fingers. The frustration he’d heard earlier in her voice softened to concern. “I thought she’d be back by now. Truth be told, I’m worried about Meredith. She’s a delightful young woman with a big heart. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”
Pulling out his business card, Pete placed it on the counter. “I’m staying at the Lodge over the weekend. If she comes back, would you tell her that Pete Worth is looking for her?”
“Shall I mention her mother?”
“No.” Pete glanced at the colorful quilts displayed around the shop. “Her quilting. Tell Meredith I’m interested in her work.”
The woman’s eyes softened. “She is gifted.”
“Do you happen to know where I could find her boyfriend?” Pete thought back to the bedroom photo. “The guy’s about her age, maybe a few inches taller. Dark hair, long sideburns?”
The shopkeeper furrowed her brow. “Doubt there’d be a boyfriend this soon after her husband’s death. I heard the police are calling it a homicide.”
A buzz sounded in Pete’s ears. Like a trapped fly. His own internal warning system. Seemed the deeper he dug, the more problems surfaced. His desire to help Eve had led him to Dixie and now to a missing woman whose husband may have been murdered.
Getting involved in a homicide investigation wasn’t on his list of things to do this weekend, but if Meredith knew Dixie, she might provide information that Eve needed to know.
“Ma’am, do you recall when her husband died?”
“Hmmm? Must have been six months ago or so. Meredith never talked about him, and most folks didn’t connect her with the story in the paper. Seems he died on a fishing boat out of Jackson Harbor.”
“South of here?”
“That’s right. The article said he’d just hired on. Went out on a day trip, and his leg got tied up in one of the nets as it was being tossed in the water. According to the story, he was pulled overboard, and the blades on the motor caught him. Cut him pretty bad. He bled to death before they could get him to shore.”
“They?”
“The crew. I wouldn’t have thought much more about the accident except the paper ran a picture of the wife he left behind, and Meredith arrived in town not long after that. Last week the police arrested the boat owner.”
If the husband had been involved in something criminal, Dixie and her boyfriend could be as well. Perhaps that’s why they’d made the late-night visit to Meredith’s bungalow.
Pete pointed to the counter where he’d placed his card. “You have my cell number. Be sure to tell Meredith I’m looking for her.”
“Do you know that other guy who stopped by? He wouldn’t say what he wanted.”
Pete thought of Dixie’s friend. “Big man with a ponytail?”
The shopkeeper shook her head. “The man was Latino, probably five-eight.” She touched her face. “He had a scar on his left cheek.”
Evidently, Dixie and her boyfriend weren’t the only other people looking for Meredith. The shopkeeper had mentioned the police, who probably wanted a chat with the grieving widow as well.
Leaving the store, Pete headed down the block to the diner and sat in a booth that faced the street with a clear view of the quilt shop. Three cups of coffee later, he noticed an elderly woman shuffle inside, holding a cane in her right hand. One of the few people who had visited the shop that morning.
Pete caught the eye of the waitress and pointed to his cup, which she quickly refilled.
Taking a sip of the hot brew, he glanced once again at the shop. The old woman stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk.
This time she held the cane in her left hand.
A baggy sweater hung over her sweatpants. A floppy hat covered her hair, except for a long strand that trailed along the slender curve of her neck.
The same raven hair he’d seen in the bungalow photo.
Pete threw some bills on the table and raced from the diner.
The woman turned the corner and crossed the street. A clunker sat parked at the end of the block.
Nervously, she glanced over her shoulder. Spying him, she tossed her cane aside and ran toward the car. Her hat flew off, and dark hair spilled across her shoulders, swinging back and forth.
She had an awkward gait and kept her hands close to her body. Was she holding something?
He was gaining on her.
“Meredith, wait,” Pete called. “I need to talk to you.”
She flicked another glance at him. Fear flashed across her face.
Not what he wanted.
At that moment, a police cruiser turned onto the block.
Meredith stopped abruptly. She turned and caught Pete’s eye, her own wide with panic.
He slowed his pace. Meredith paused long enough for the black-and-white sedan to pass before she took off running again.
Silhouetted for that brief moment against the backdrop of the brick building behind her, Pete realized something he hadn’t noticed before.
Meredith Lassiter was pregnant.
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