I'm standing in the foyer of Darren's loft when I hear the sound.
A gasp. A stumble. Then the sickening rhythm of a body hitting stairs.
I spin toward the sound. The interior staircase — the one that leads up to the second-floor studio — is fifteen feet away. Zayla is tumbling down it. Her arms are flailing. Her mouth is open. She's screaming.
She lands at my feet.
The sound of her body hitting the marble is wrong. Too heavy. Too final.
I drop the box I'm holding. My mother's books scatter across the floor.
"Zayla—" I reach for her but she's already curling into herself, hands pressed to her stomach, rocking.
"No," she's saying. "No no no no—"
I hear footsteps. Running. Darren appears at the top of the stairs. He's barefoot. Paint on his hands. His eyes find Zayla on the floor and something in his face cracks open.
He's down the stairs in seconds.
"What happened?" His voice is sharp. Afraid. I've never heard him afraid.
Zayla is sobbing now. Her whole body is shaking. She looks up at Darren and her face is white. Bloodless.
"She pushed me," Zayla whispers.
The air stops.
"What?"
"She pushed me." Zayla's voice is stronger now. She's looking at Darren but she's pointing at me. Her hand is trembling. "I was coming down the stairs and she — she pushed me and I fell and—" Her hands clutch her stomach. "The baby. Oh god, the baby—"
Darren's eyes cut to me.
I'm frozen. My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
"I didn't—" I finally manage. "Darren, I didn't touch her. I was down here. I was just standing here—"
"She's lying," Zayla sobs. "She's lying, she grabbed my arm, she—"
"I didn't!" My voice cracks. "I swear to god I didn't touch her. Check the cameras. Check the—"
"There are no cameras on that staircase," Darren says.
The words land like stones.
I stare at him. "Then you know I couldn't have—"
"Convenient," he says. His voice is flat. Cold. The voice I know. The voice that has always been there, under everything. "Very convenient."
"Darren, please—"
"Get out."
I don't move. I can't move.
Zayla is crying harder now. Darren is kneeling beside her, his hand on her back, and he's speaking to her in a voice I've never heard him use. Soft. Gentle. The voice I used to imagine he might use with me someday.
"We need to get you to the hospital," he's saying. "It's okay. I've got you."
"Darren, listen to me—" I take a step forward.
He looks up. The expression on his face stops me cold.
"If you come near my family again," he says, "you will regret it."
My family.
Not our son. Not Judah.
My family.
The words are a door slamming shut. Final. Locked.
I look at Zayla. She's watching me over Darren's shoulder. Her face is still twisted in pain. But her eyes — just for a second — her eyes are clear. Steady. Triumphant.
Then she buries her face in Darren's chest and sobs.
I back toward the door. My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking.
"I didn't push her," I say one more time. My voice is small. "I didn't."
Darren doesn't look at me.
I leave the box on the floor. I leave my mother's books scattered across the marble. I walk out and the door closes behind me and I stand in the hallway for a long time, staring at nothing.
The elevator arrives. I step inside.
I watch the numbers descend.
By the time I reach the lobby, I know exactly what's going to happen next.
Darren will take Zayla to the hospital. They'll tell him she lost the baby. He will believe her. He will hate me.
And the one thing I asked for — the only thing I asked for in the divorce — will be the first thing he takes away.
I walk out into the October evening. The air is cold. The streetlights are coming on.
I pull out my phone and call Mount Sinai.
"I need to speak to billing," I say when someone answers. "About my mother. I need to make sure the payments are up to date."
The woman on the other end puts me on hold.
I stand on the corner of Franklin and West Broadway and I wait.
People walk past me. Couples holding hands. A man with a dog. A woman laughing into her phone.
The hold music is soft. Instrumental. Something I used to know.
I close my eyes.
I wait for the world to end.
