Chapter 9
The waitress didn't ask if I wanted her to call. She just did it. I heard her at the counter, voice low, saying pregnant woman, barefoot, wet dress, man waiting outside in a sedan. I sat in the booth with my hands wrapped around the mug she'd given me and watched the rain hit the diner windows. My feet were tucked under me because the tile was cold. The green gown was still damp and it clung to my stomach when I breathed.
The door chimed and a sheriff's deputy came in. He was older, maybe fifty, with a brown uniform that looked pressed despite the rain. His hat was wet. He wiped his boots on the mat and looked first at me, then at the waitress. The waitress nodded toward my booth. He left the door open a few inches and I could see the black sedan still parked under the streetlight at the edge of the parking lot. Mark hadn't moved.
He slid into the booth across from me but left space between us. He didn't touch me. He set a small notebook on the table.
"I'm Deputy Harlan with county," he said. "You need medical help right now?"
I shook my head. My throat was dry. "No. I'm okay."
He looked at my feet under the table, then at my dress. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Sofia," I said. My voice was quiet. I had to swallow before I could say my last name. "Sofia Reyes."
He wrote it down. "Sofia, someone called because they were worried. You came in tonight without shoes, without a coat. It's raining hard. Do you feel safe answering a few questions here, just you and me?"
I glanced toward the window. Mark was still behind the wheel, lights off. "Yes," I said. "Here is better."
The waitress stayed behind the counter, wiping the same spot, giving us distance. The deputy kept his voice low enough that she couldn't hear.
"Can you tell me what happened tonight?" he asked.
I stared at the steam coming off the mug. I could feel my heartbeat in my belly. "There was a party at the house," I said. "At the mansion on Ridge Road. A gala. I tried to leave. I had my suitcase. The black rolling one. I went down the front steps. They were wet. Marble. It was pouring."
He nodded, writing. "Who is 'they'?"
"My husband. Mark. He followed me down the steps. He grabbed my arm. He said, 'Sofia, what the hell are you doing?'" I said the words exactly as he'd said them, flat, not louder. My hand went to my forearm without thinking, where his grip had been. "I was holding the suitcase handle with the other hand. Barefoot. I didn't have shoes because I left the bedroom fast."
"What happened next?" he asked.
"His mother and his sister were in the doorway. Evelyn and Vanessa. They were holding champagne. Watching. Evelyn said, 'Let her go, she'll be back by morning.'" I looked up at him. "She didn't yell. She said it calm. Like she knew I wouldn't get far."
He wrote the line down word for word. He didn't react. "Did anyone hurt you physically? Hit, push, choke?"
"He gripped my arm," I said. "Tight. He didn't let go right away. But he didn't hit me."
"Did he take your phone or keys?" he asked.
I hesitated. "My phone was in the suitcase. I left the suitcase on the steps when I ran. The keys to the sedan — he had them. The car was there the whole time but I couldn't use it."
He asked about how many weeks pregnant I was, if I'd had any bleeding or pain, if I'd had anything to drink. I told him thirty-two weeks, no bleeding, just pressure and cold. He asked if I had family or a friend nearby I could call. I told him my mom was in Ohio. No one close.
He closed the notebook for a second. "Thank you for telling me straight," he said. "I'm going to step out and talk to the man in the sedan. You stay right here with Carla. You're not in trouble. I will be right back. Is that okay?"
I nodded. My breathing had gone shallow again and I tried to slow it.
He got up and walked out. Through the window I watched him cross the parking lot. The rain was still coming down hard and it beaded on his hat. He tapped on the driver's window of the black sedan. Mark rolled it down. I couldn't hear them through the glass, but I could see Mark's face in the streetlight. He was calm now, hands on the wheel, explaining. He gestured back toward the diner once, then toward the mansion direction, as if describing the party. I saw the deputy nod, ask another question, write something.
Carla brought me a dry towel for my feet and didn't say anything. I wrapped it around my ankles and held the mug tighter.
After about five minutes the deputy came back in, shaking water off his shoulders. He sat again, not across but at the end of the booth, so I wasn't boxed in.
"I spoke with Mark Reyes outside," he said. "He said you two had a marital argument after the gala. He said there's been stress about the pregnancy and that you wanted to take a walk to cool off and he was worried about you being out in the rain without shoes. He said he followed to bring you home."
I didn't answer right away. I just looked at the towel around my feet.
"He's not denying he grabbed your arm to stop you," the deputy went on. "He said he thought you'd slip on the steps."
"He didn't let go when I asked," I whispered.
"I hear you," he said. "Here's where we are. I've got a welfare check, not a crime I can make an arrest on tonight. No visible injury, no statement of an assault beyond the grab, both stories line up as a heated argument. I'm going to log it. That means there's a record with the county, with both your names, date, time, and exactly what you told me, including what you heard at the doorway and the suitcase and the sedan. If anything else happens, that record exists."
I felt my eyes sting, but no tears came, just rain still drying in my hair.
"I'm not going to make you go back with him," he added. "And I'm not going to tell you what to do. I can give you a ride to urgent care to get checked, or to a family friend, or to the motel on Highway 31 if you need a safe place tonight. I can also stay until a ride you choose gets here. But I can't leave you walking alone on the highway in this weather."
I thought about the motel sign I'd seen from the highway, lit up yellow. I thought about the empty suitcase on the marble steps.
"Can you take me to the motel?" I asked. "Not the hospital tonight. The motel. I just need a door that locks."
He nodded. "I can do that. Carla, you good if she gathers her things?"
May you like
Carla said yes.
I stood up slowly, the towel falling off my feet. The deputy's eyes dropped to my bare soles on the cold tile, then back up. He didn't comment again. He just picked up his notebook and waited while I carried the mug to the counter.
