Chapter 9

CHAPTER

NINE

Anya

A s so many of Saverio's strange, considerate actions, the food delivery confuses me. Why does he care if I eat or starve? He must be truly serious about keeping me alive until he no longer needs me to testify about his whereabouts on the night of the murder.

My pride won't let me take his food, but in the end, practicality wins. I do need to eat, and I don't have more than a few pennies left in my purse. It will be stupid to let so much high-quality food go to waste when my cupboards are empty.

I carry the groceries item by item into the apartment and discard the box when I'm done.

Despite the worry that batters my mind, I'm exhausted. I sleep like the dead and wake up before sunrise.

When I get to the office, I'm relieved that everything is more or less back to normal. Zack left after his nightshift, and the staff trickle in with paper cups of coffee in their hands.

The rich, fragrant aroma makes my mouth water, but I stopped drinking caffeine the minute I suspected that I was pregnant. Instead, I sip a ginger infusion at my desk while going over my task list for the day.

The subdued talk continues, people speculating about Mr. Lewis's murder, but I try to block out the conversations and to focus on my work.

An hour goes by during which I constantly glance at the door, expecting Ms. Price to appear on the threshold and to call me to her office, but nothing happens.

Perhaps she took mercy on me and decided to keep my secret. She obviously didn't tell my coworkers, or they would've mentioned something.

As the morning drags on and no one comes for me, the tension slowly flows from my muscles.

Toward the end of the morning, I've lost myself so much in the numbers that I only realize it's lunchtime when the open plan office runs empty. The other junior accountants like to go to the Chelsea Market for lunch. I brought leftover pasta from last night.

I must've stood up too quickly, because the world tilts on its axis. At the same time, the egg and toast I had for breakfast push up in my throat. I grip the edges of the desk to steady myself and inhale a couple of times, hoping that the saliva pooling in my mouth will pass.

Only, it doesn't. My body breaks out in cold sweat while spasms contract my stomach.

I'm not going to make it to the bathroom.

Grabbing the trashcan next to my desk, I empty my stomach inside it. I retch pitifully until nothing but dry heaves are left.

Depleted of energy, I straighten with effort and use a tissue from the box on my desk to wipe my mouth. I'm grateful that no one witnessed the spectacle.

It takes all my strength to take my bag and slip to the bathroom with the trashcan in my arms. Thankfully, I don't run into anyone in the hallway. In the bathroom, I take the foldable toothbrush and mini toothpaste I use at work from my bag. After rinsing the trashcan and brushing my teeth, I feel a little better. The face that stares back at me in the reflection of the mirror is pale. The skin beneath my eyes appears bruised.

I apply blush and lipstick and brush my hair.

There.

My colleagues won't be able to tell the difference between my noon and my morning face.

Dragging in a steadying breath, I take stock of myself. The nausea has abated. My stomach growls with hunger as if I haven't just puked out my guts.

I blow out a sigh. "These swings between puking when I smell food and wanting to shove everything in the fridge down my throat are going to take getting used to." Smiling, I cup my stomach. "Think you can cause a little less havoc in there?"

After lunch, I almost feel like my old self. It's not until I walk home at six that I'm unsteady on my feet again. It's so bad that I have to hold onto a lamppost while I wait for the traffic light to change.

I made sure to eat enough. It can't be my blood sugar. Yet when I step off the sidewalk, it's as if the world falls away from under my feet. My body breaks out in sweat despite the mild temperature and the cool breeze. The sound of the traffic is suddenly too loud in my ears. Every honk of a horn is like a hammer beating between my temples. The smell of exhaust pipe fumes and tar is suffocating. It takes every bit of my strength not to give in to the weakness that threatens to buckle my knees.

Somehow, I make it to my building where I drag myself up the stairs and unlock my door with a shaky hand. Relief washes over me when I walk into the lounge and dump my bag on the sofa.

The one minute I'm thinking how glad I am that I'm home, and the next, my vision splinters into a kaleidoscope of white light before frizzling out around the edges and turning dark.

I wake up with a pounding headache on the lounge floor.

It's dark outside. The city lights are visible through the windows. The time on the microwave says it's just after six-thirty.

It takes me a moment to remember.

I fainted.

I sit up and rub a hand over the back of my head where the pain is the worst.

Ouch.

There's a big egg. I must've knocked my head on the floor.

Using the armrest of the sofa, I pull myself up. I still feel weak, so I walk next to the wall so that I can lean against it if necessary.

In the kitchen, I pour a glass of milk and sit down at the table to drink it.

What happened?

Is it my blood pressure?

I bite my lip as I contemplate my options. I didn't plan on seeing a doctor so soon. I was hoping I wouldn't have to go until my next trimester, but I can't risk my baby's health.

When I feel a little more stable, I fetch my bag and take out the phone. I access the app my ob-gyn uses and send her a message, explaining what happened.

A reply comes a few seconds later. She's scheduled me for an emergency checkup tomorrow morning at eight.

A grateful sigh escapes my lips. She only sees patients from nine, which means she's coming in early especially for me, and I have no idea how I'm going to tell her that I can't pay her.