“One doctor. One patient. One terrible lie.”
From the Publisher: “I used to have it all. My ex-boyfriend and I were madly in love and dreamed of starting a family. When I found out I couldn’t have children, it broke me. Now, at my job at the fertility clinic, I give other couples what I could never have.
The day my ex and his new wife walk into my clinic, my heart shatters all over again. He’s back. Now, I stand here with a syringe trembling in my hand and an impossible decision to make:
Do I help them conceive a child—even though I know he’s keeping a dangerous secret?
Or do I protect his wife—my patient, now—and take what’s rightfully mine?
Motherhood is a gift. I want a baby so bad it hurts. My ex knows the dark secrets that haunt my own past too… but has he underestimated how far I’ll go to get the child I’ve always dreamed of?
Only one thing is for certain. If anyone discovers what I’m about to do, it will tear us all apart…
A completely gripping psychological thriller that will have you racing through the pages. Perfect for fans of Freida McFadden, Shari Lapena and The Girl on the Train—you won’t be able to put this down.”
More info About the Author: Cara Reinard is a screenwriter and Amazon best-selling author of psychological suspense novels, including SWEET WATER which hit #1 on the kindle Amazon best-seller chart for domestic suspense. Cara has an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University and resides in the Pittsburgh area with her family and two Bernese Mountain dogs.
Author Site
Chapter One
Emily
BARREN
The first time anyone breathed the word—barren—in my ear, I was studying abroad at Cambridge, in England. I went hiking with a gorgeous fellow graduate student named Louie on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales National Park on an expanse of land called Riggs Moor.
The grounds here are absolutely barren, he said, in a chirpy voice I found delicious.
I liked Louie because of his spontaneity, a quality he shared with my college ex-boyfriend, Ben, who I’d left thousands of miles away.
My romance with Louie, a hot flame that burned out on the back of a hillside on the most desolate part of England, was almost as short-lived as my first experience of the word.
In my late twenties, the word—barren—took on a different meaning. After I was diagnosed and moved home to the States, the harsh treatments to cure me diminished my fertility. My only shot at having biological children was to freeze my eggs.
And today, on my thirty-sixth birthday, barren means something entirely different.
I’m thankful for each new year, but it’s the wicked meaning of the word that gets to me now.
And there’s a special place in Hell for those who ask the unmarried childless woman of a certain age the questions—So when do you think you’ll settle down and have kids? Your biological clock is ticking, you know?
We know.
Believe me. We know…
Chapter Two
Emily
UPGRADE
My birthday dinner is inside of a bar, jampacked with more men wearing black and gold hats backwards than should be legally allowed, and it’s only pre-season.
Outside isn’t much better. Sweat and smoke and leering drunk eyes beneath a shabby tent dressed up with a string of Christmas lights all year around—that’s Redbeard’s, Pittsburgh’s hole-in-the-wall bar on the top of a mountain.
Laurel, my best friend, takes in her surroundings like she’d rather be anywhere else, but she let me choose the venue tonight—her mistake.
The waitress slops down our over-flowing mixed drinks on the table.
“Why did you pick… this place for your birthday dinner?” Laurel asks.
“I know something is going on. We always celebrate my birthday on the weekend and you insisted on the actual day this year.”
Laurel looks as though she’s been stung. “You’re right… So, what? You torture me by bringing me here?”
I smile brightly. “Exactly. You know I don’t like surprises.” This couldn’t be more true. I’m a scientist. I prefer my life in measured doses.
Laurel shakes her head, laughs, and sticks her middle finger up at me. “I hate you!”
“You love me.” I point at her vodka tonic. The runoff is dripping down the side. “Here.” I throw her a drink napkin and she dabs at her glass, but she won’t look at me. Something is wrong.
“Kids okay?” I ask, a bit worried.
“Yeah, they’re great,” she says. I know I would’ve heard about it long before now if this were about them.
“What’s going on, Laurel?” I ask.
“Emily, it’s… Ben.”
“Oh.” I don’t have to ask which Ben she’s referring to, because there’s only one—Ben Holiday. My college ex, and sadly the man with whom I had my last serious relationship—nearly fifteen years ago. He somehow found the heart beneath Emily the clinical scientist; the real me. When I think about Ben it makes me miss both of us. My ex-boyfriend, and the girl I used to be with him.
Laurel flashes her long lashes at me. “He’s going to be in town.”
My eyes are on fire. But it’s not from the cigar smoke. Ben is coming home and I’m the last to know.
“He’s having… relationship trouble. I don’t know much. I overheard his conversation with Zach.”
I bite my lip. “What kind of issues?” This is interesting. “What’re Zach’s thoughts?” I ask of Laurel’s husband.
“Zach’s just happy to hang out with him, but he hasn’t invited me to come with them… for the meetup,” Laurel says.
“Have you seen him? Seen them?” This is the million-dollar question. Ben has been off the radar for a decade. He’s anti-all-things-social-media. I heard his wife was religious and considers social media a sin, or something. Although, I always receive his grand updates from Laurel via Zach.
“Hey, Zach talked to Ben and he just returned from Vail on some epic ski trip.”
“Zach heard from Ben and I guess he caught like three gigantic swordfish in Mexico!”
“You’re not going to believe this, but Ben just completed his first Ironman.”
It’s not my fault I haven’t gotten over Ben. Everyone makes him out to be some kind of Herculean, mountain-leaping, enigma, too mysterious to make an appearance on Facebook or Instagram.
“Is she… going to be with him when he visits Zach?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. I asked Zach if I should plan a dinner for the four of us, and he said that he needed a guy’s night to talk to Ben at the bar alone.”
Betrayal digs deep at the thought of my best friend having dinner with Ben’s wife. The four of us—Laurel and Zach, and Ben and me—used to be inseparable. “Are you sure you heard Zach right? What did he say, exactly?” I couldn’t be more curious.
“He said maybe time apart from her will help you figure things out.” Laurel shoots me a sly little smile.
Ooh, this is good. Maybe they won’t figure it out.
Divorce happens around this stage in a marriage.
It’s got that whole itch attached to it—seven years. I should know how long it’s been. I drink myself to sleep nearly every year on the eve of their wedding anniversary. “What do you think could’ve happened?”
I’m hoping Laurel’s holding out—that she knows more than she’s revealing, because the suspense is killing me.
“The only other thing I overheard once was that Ben wanted to have kids right away and she didn’t. That was a long time ago though.”
A light bulb clicks on. “Why doesn’t Ben have kids yet? He wanted a mob of children, and he’s thirty-five, and how old is this woman he married anyway?” The questions tumble out of my mouth like they’re on a conveyor.
“I think around the same age. He doesn’t talk to Zach about those kinds of things. His wife is super active. I guess she likes to hike and kayak and travel, like him, you know? Maybe she doesn’t want to give up her freedom?”
“That’s the dumbest reason I’ve ever heard for not having children,” I say.
Laurel flashes her gorgeous blue eyes at me again.
“Well, come on.” I protest, “she won’t have a baby with him because she’d rather take a hike? I’d tell her to take a walk.” I know it’s unreasonable to be upset with Laurel, but she’s got me all fired up. Why didn’t you tell me the minute you knew he was coming home?!
Laurel laughs, but her forehead pinches together like this conversation is stressing her out.
She’s given a reprieve as our food is plunked on the table with force, and my mind skitters to Ben. Maybe he’s tired of suburbia with the missus. Maybe he even misses—me.
I pluck a wing off the plate and sink my teeth into it, observing Laurel’s white, limp fries. She prods one with her fork and it hangs on the silver tine like a wet noodle.
“That’s why you order the wings when you come here,” I inform.
“Message received. Hopefully, we won’t be dining here again anytime soon. Time for an upgrade—in all things, Emily.”
I exhale, because we both know she’s talking about Ben, but she can’t outright say it. Not after how we broke up. Laurel shares some responsibility there. My breakup with Ben has thrown off the entire trajectory of my life. We could’ve had kids early, before I got sick, if I hadn’t ended the relationship.
I want a baby so bad it hurt sometimes, and talking about them all day only makes it worse. Forget talking about them, pouring test tubes into petri dishes and creating them with my own hands makes it downright excruciating. All because I was waiting for the right guy.
But Ben was the right guy, the only man I’d ever thought of having a child with, and I just let him go…
Chapter Three
Emily
MOUNTAIN
My townhouse sits on Mount Washington’s Grandview Avenue, the cream of the crop view of Pittsburgh’s skyline, the homes an incongruent smattering of every type of architectural design possible—gothic revival, art deco, Victorian, a swanky high-rise condominium, a four-story, vertically constructed modern masterpiece—all crammed next to one another in a hulking conglomerate of buildings. My favorite house on the mountain is constructed of stone with evil-looking dragon figurines guarding the entrance—black fencing, overgrown vines.
An old witch lives there, I’m sure.
But she can’t possibly be worse than Chelsea Asad.
“You’re miserable! Miserable. Slob.” The echo of Chelsea’s voice streams through the open windows.
According to Chelsea, Jasper is—a freeloading, lazy bastard who refuses to work. Ironically, from what I’ve gathered, Chelsea has never worked a day in her life. I’m sure Jasper stays for their three-year-old daughter, Clementine. Why else would he stay? I was sure, once Clem was born, that they’d move from our adjoined building, view-side of the steep cliffs. But there Chelsea is, still.
I sit on the balcony and wave at her.
I do this sometimes so she realizes I’m there.
And, so she stops screaming at her fucking husband.
One of the only sacred moments in my day is when I can sit on the balcony and drink my morning coffee before I report to the clinic.
Chelsea waves back, but continues to complain—If you don’t find a job by the end of the month, you can find somewhere else to live!
I yawn, because I’ve heard this threat more times than I care to count in my seven years living here. A trust fund baby, Chelsea can afford to make the threat. Jasper’s eviction has yet to occur.
Jasper catches my eyes next, and we’ve shared so many wayward glances, he’s long past embarrassed. More amused—a sharp edge that’s been worn down to a nub. Although, his nub is apparently sizeable by the way Chelsea screams in pleasure during their lovemaking.
She keeps the window open for those acts of demonstration too.
Sometimes she walks onto her balcony afterward, silk robe flapping in the wind that always seems to catch at this altitude, exposing her naked body to the city, still slick with Jasper. I think she walks out there so I’ll watch her. The way she fake-inhales her cigarette gives away more than she thinks.
Chelsea’s not my type though. Jasper is.
Dark and brooding, brown hair and eyes, washboard abs. Likes to stain antique furniture on the balcony with his shirt off in the summertime—Jasper.
We’re quiet people—Jasper and me.
Sometimes we both sit on the balcony, together, in silence, sipping our cocktails or hot drinks. We might offer each other a nod, at ease in each other’s presence. He’s caught me in little more than my underwear before, but it’s never motivated me enough to change. It’s just Jasper. We’re like roommates, in a way.
Then Chelsea returns, enters our scared space, destroys our bliss.
There’s usually immediate discord, something for Chelsea to complain about—why didn’t you take care of the bills… arrange the childcare… order the repair?
Chelsea’s presence embodies a bundle of nervous energy, even on the balcony, a place that should instill wonder with the city and its twinkling lights just below. She often leans too far over the edge in a way that makes me uneasy.
There’re the days I crave my peace so badly that I imagine pushing her right off the ledge.
I visualize the way her body would smack off the rocks, which ones she’d likely hit first. Living here for so long, I’ve memorized each one, the way they cut and jut from the side of the steep hill. Perhaps, she’d bounce far enough over to the right to get tangled in the tracks of the red incline cable car that moves up and down the side of the mountain—an archaic transport system still used.
Chelsea would certainly die from that type of fall, but it could be an accident.
I hate that the thought enters my mind on a regular basis. But we can control our thoughts no more than we can surgically detach our feelings from our body. I’d like to alter how I feel, but as it stands I can’t help but think how unfair the world is that vile women like Chelsea Asad are blessed with children, and I’m all alone—and barren.
Far too often, Clementine appears scared from all of the shouting. She shouldn’t be around all this. She’d be better off…
With a mother like me.
This excerpt is published here courtesy of the author and publisher and should not be reprinted without permission.
Q&A and Excerpt: Into the Sound by Cara Reinard (bestselling author of Sweet Water)
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