Eight months pregnant.
She had told me the baby’s father was a man who disappeared after a short relationship.
I understood the lie immediately.
The child was Adrian’s.
Vanessa turned toward the river.
Toward us.
There was no horror on her face.
She knew.
That hurt more than the water climbing toward my waist.
“Noah.”
“I see her.”
“I brought both of them into our lives.”
“We’ll discuss your terrible taste later.”
I turned on him.
“Later?”
“Yes.”
The water reached the bottom of his wheelchair.
Noah took a breath.
Then released a buckle across his chest.
“Elena, you are going to hate me for approximately the next decade.”
“What are you talking about?”
He put both hands on the armrests.
Then stood.
For several seconds, the river disappeared.
Adrian disappeared.
Vanessa disappeared.
My brother, who had spent fifteen years in a wheelchair, was standing behind me.
Not shaking.
Not struggling.
Standing.
“Noah.”
“Later.”
“You can walk?”
“Yes.”
I screamed it.
“You can WALK?”
“Elena!”
“How long?”
“Long enough that this is going to become a very unpleasant family conversation.”
He reached into a waterproof pouch attached beneath the chair and pulled out a compact rescue cutter.
I stared.
“How long?”
“Fourteen years.”
My mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“You let me redesign two houses for you.”
“I know.”
“I carried you up stairs.”
“I know.”
“I threatened a restaurant manager because their ramp was blocked.”
“That one was justified.”
“Noah!”
The SUV shifted deeper.
He grabbed my shoulder.
“You can be furious after we survive.”
Fair.
