Part 15 (1/2)

I spend the next few minutes figuring out my plan, so by the time we're walking through the supermarket doors, I already know what to say.

”I'm going to get some food,” I tell him. ”Maybe you should go get some more, uh, protection?” Ward insists on always buying the condoms. He says it's the guy's responsibility.

And he's not about to s.h.i.+rk his duty now. Amus.e.m.e.nt flickers in his eyes.

”We're running through those things pretty quickly, aren't we?” he says. ”All right then. I'll grab some and come find you.”

A pebble of guilt forms in my stomach as I watch him walk away. Sending him to get condoms while I secretly buy a pregnancy test feels pretty low, but I tell myself that if the test comes back negative, I'm going to want to make sure we take every precaution from here on out.

I only have a few minutes to grab a test and zip through the checkout line before Ward comes looking for me.

Back near my family's former estate, the stores kept pregnancy tests right at the checkout line next to the batteries and candy bars. I pray that this store does the same. I duck into the nearest empty checkout aisle and scan the racks.

There-right next to the energy shots. I almost collapse in relief. But as I'm reaching for the test, my eyes fall on the magazines displayed directly to the left. On the latest issue of Look! Magazine, which features a giant picture of Edward Carolson's face.

And a headline that makes my entire body go cold.

I grab the magazine. Flip it open. Turn desperately through the pages. My stomach twists, threatening to dislodge my breakfast.

I'm going to vomit. I'm going to throw up right here in the middle of the store. I'm going to- ”Lou?”

Ward's voice snaps me back to awareness. The magazine is still in my hand, and my mind races as I fight down the bile in my throat.

He can't see this. Not like this.

I almost shove the magazine back on the rack. I want to throw it across the room. Get it as far away from me as possible. But Ward's almost next to me. He'll see it either way.

He's frowning by the time he stops in front of me. ”What's going on?”

Even as he says it, his eyes slide past me to the magazine rack. I know the split second he reads the headline, because his face suddenly goes white.

”Ward,” I say softly, but he doesn't appear to hear me.

His eyes twitch slightly, his pupils darting back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He's rereading the headline again and again and again.

I touch his arm, but I know there's nothing I can do. No way for me to soften the words that continue to hold his gaze.

Edward Carolson: Dead at 58.

CHAPTER NINE.

I've never seen Ward like this. Not at Huntington Manor. Not even when I was punched. He's perfectly still.

And then all of a sudden his hand darts out. He grabs the magazine off of the rack. Tears through the pages.

They didn't even bother to come up with a different t.i.tle for the accompanying article. They just repeat the same, cold phrase across the top of the page.

Edward Carolson: Dead at 58.

I know that headline. I saw something similar on dozens of publications when my father died. On a hundred websites. It's always the same: blunt and sensational at the same time. Like the people who appear in these magazines are fictional characters, and every event of their life is just one more scene in that ma.s.sive soap opera. Like they don't leave behind real people who have to see reminders of their loved ones wherever they turn.

Ward's hands are shaking. He's still holding the magazine open, but the pages are fluttering. I don't think he can even read the article.

I'm still holding the issue I picked up. My stomach lurches, but I force myself to flip open the magazine and find the article. My eyes drift over the words.

Apparently it was a heart attack. None of the ”anonymous sources” mentioned in the text seem to know more than that, but they all seem to be more than willing to offer up their theories. Some suggest health issues caused by stress.

I can't read this garbage. I close the magazine and toss it back on the rack.

”Ward,” I murmur, stepping close to him and placing a hand on his chest. ”Ward, look at me.”

He looks down at me, even though the rest of him remains rigid. ”This... this is just a rumor, right? They made this up to sell magazines.”

Maybe. But probably not. Most magazines don't print death announcements unless they're pretty d.a.m.ned sure.

My silence is answer enough for him. He throws the magazine at the floor. Then he's grabbing at the racks, tearing down the magazines. Throwing every single one aside.

”Hey!” an employee says, running up to us. ”What do you think you're doing?”

Ward looks like he's about to deck the guy in the nose. But when his eyes fall on me, his face falls slightly.

”We need to leave,” he says. He doesn't even sound like himself.

”Okay. Let's go.” I take his arm as we move toward the door. Every muscle in his body is tense.

He pulls away from me when we step outside.

”We need to find a computer,” he says, striding ahead of me toward the motel.

”A computer?”

”Internet. We need internet.”

He's already in the car and cranking the gas by the time I get there.

”Where are we going?” I ask as I slide into my seat.

”Wherever there's a computer.”

That muscle is twitching in his cheek, and I'm about to beg him to pull over when I see the sign for one of those big-box electronics stores up ahead. They have computers, right?

”There,” I tell him, pointing.

A minute later, I'm trying to keep up with him as he marches across the parking lot.

The store's busy. But we manage to find an open floor model in the computer department. Ward pulls up the internet. It's only a limited connection, but he's able to find a news site.