Whatever the case, Amber was scrambling. She had a sizable problem to be solved in a short amount of time. Who could she trust when she’d burned so many bridges? I doubted she’d involve either Frank or Ricardo; they were too strong, and Don was too weak. She needed a fourth man watching over both her and me during delivery. But who could she trust with five million dollars?

  Amber was not the only one scrambling. I, too, had a problem. Several actually, and mine might have been more troubling than Amber’s. Problem one: if the child was born here, and let’s just say for argument’s sake that I could kidnap him or her while boyfriend number four and Amber watched over him or her like a hawk, then how was I going to travel back across the country? How was I going to feed and care for a one-day-old baby? While driving or flying a plane? All while every law enforcement agency in Georgia tried to find me? I supposed I could kidnap Amber and force her to give birth in a hotel bathroom, which seemed risky, not to mention how I would keep her quiet. But even if I pulled that off, how would I force Amber to feed the baby while I flew us back to Montana? What would stop her from choking him or her—a child she didn’t want in the first place—while I watched? Nothing.

  Since problem one seemed insurmountable, problem two involved returning to Montana and bringing Joe to Georgia prior to delivery. That is, right now. But just exactly how would I bring one of the most recognizable actresses in the world anywhere without being noticed, especially when I’d been holding her against her will for a month? Why would she agree to do anything with me, and if she did, what was to stop her from doing that and then screaming her head off the first chance she got in a public setting?

  Problem three was taking Amber to Joe. This late in the trimester, air travel risked inducing labor and possible injury to the baby given the change in altitude. With Joe’s plane, we could fly lower, but at what risk? What would I do if she went into labor somewhere over Kansas? Land? Probably not. And while I cared little if Amber suffered childbirth sans meds, I did care what happened to the child. What if she had complications midair? Would I set the autopilot, hop in the back, and help calm-and-not-kicking-and-screaming Amber deliver Joe’s baby?

  Not likely.

  Problem four was taking Amber back to Joe while driving back across the country. Something that would take days and risk a greater chance of being seen or giving her a chance to scream and tell everyone within earshot that I’d kidnapped her. Not to mention my need to sleep at some point. So driving was out.

  Problem five was to kidnap Amber, tie her hands and feet, shove a sock in her mouth, and lock her in a room for thirty-six to forty-eight hours while I retrieved Joe, which risked harming both Amber and the baby. Not good. That amount of distress could induce labor, which would leave Amber tied up and muted with a newborn uncared for on the bed. I had no desire to wander down that rabbit hole.

  No option was good. Not to mention having to pull any of these off while not being arrested or being shot by Frank or Ricardo or Don or whoever Amber was soon to invite to the party. I’d say my chances were about one in ten. Having studied the options, I chose the last door. The best worst option.

  Chapter 35

  Before

  Her doctors changed course. “This is not uncommon.” On to plan B. In vitro. Harvest viable eggs, fertilize them with help from Syd, let them mature and grow in a petri dish, then reinsert them medically into Joe’s body where they’d have the best chance of survival. The medical community made their case. Everyone was helpful. And hopeful. Sadly, the regimen required they return to California.

  The daily routine of shots, bed rest, medications, supplements, essential oils, and a dozen other things was exhausting, as were the well-intended questions she tired of answering. Yes, she felt fine. Just weary from the process. Once again, her body responded well to treatment and spiked her bloodstream with more than one hundred times the normal levels of hormones. She could cry without reason, laugh, threaten to rip someone’s head off, show deep empathy, vomit, and down a quart of ice cream all within sixty seconds. Only to wipe her chin and poke fun at herself.

  “I feel like one of those poor creatures inside a Whac-A-Mole.”

  The timeline was simple but came with some time constraints. One in particular. For two to four weeks, doctors would suppress the ovaries, then stimulate them for eight to twelve days, monitoring her cycle starting at day five, hoping for ovulation induction between days eight and twelve. Then retrieve the eggs thirty-six hours after an injection of HCG, which triggers ovulation. Both sperm collection and fertilization occur on the day of egg retrieval.

  Simple but not really.

  And time sensitive.

  When it came time to retrieve, they were hoping for at least one good egg. Two would have been amazing. Three too much to hope for.

  From behind closed doors, both tearful and ecstatic, Joe texted Pockets. “Three. They got three! Can you believe it?!”

  Moments later, she called him. Groggy but coherent. “Help.”

  “Be right there.”

  “No, find Syd. We need him.”

  While the doctors prepared the eggs, Pockets searched for Syd. Who wasn’t hard to find. After three attempts, he finally answered his phone. “Yeah . . .”

  “Mr. Syd?”

  Syd mumbled and something crashed in the background.

  “Sir, it’s retrieval day. You’re needed here at the clinic.”

  More mumbling.

  Pockets continued, “Sir, they’ve retrieved the eggs and the clock is ticking and—”

  The phone sounded with a thud as if it’d been dropped. In the muffled background, he could hear Syd snoring.

  Fortunately, Syd and Joe had bought a townhome in LA where they’d stay when filming and it was too late or they were too tired to drive the hour home. Twenty minutes later, Pockets knocked on the door, which was not answered. Using his key, he let himself in, where he did not like what he found. Lifting an inebriated Syd out of bed, he threw him in a cold shower where Syd slowly came to life as the fog lifted.

  Pockets stuffed Syd into the Suburban and returned to the clinic, where he found the team tapping their fingers. Dragging him inside, Pockets carried Syd to the “Husband’s Room” and dropped him on the couch.

  Syd laughed. “You gonna watch?”

  Pockets stepped outside and stood opposite the door while Syd made obscene noises inside that sounded more like a cackling hyena. A few minutes later, Syd appeared, fumbling with his zipper. He looked at Pockets and pointed toward the car. “Home, James. I need a cigarette.”

  Chapter 36

  Before

  Over the next six months, two healthy, fertilized eggs were placed in Joe’s body. Neither took. When it came time to place the third, she was weary, run-down, and tired of hoping.

  It was Pockets who found her. He sat, saying nothing. She sat, pensive. After a moment, she confided, “I don’t know if I can do it again.” A pause. He knew her well enough to read her body language. She was telling the truth. “It’s not the work.” A tear trailed down one cheek. “It’s the hope.”

  “No one would blame you. If you—”

  She finished his sentence. “Throw in the towel?” She tapped herself on the chest. “I would.” She folded her hands and shook her head. “Because what if . . .” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Two of the most powerful and yet painful words ever spoken.”

  He let her talk.

  “Every morning, I eat this dish called hope. Crumbs mostly, but without it, I’m not even human.” A long pause while her mind spun. “But that’s just it. There are no guarantees. Because if you can guarantee it, it’s not hope.” She made invisible quotation marks with her fingers. “I’m ‘hoping’ I can carry a baby to term. I’m ‘hoping’ I can be a good mom. I’m ‘hoping’ Syd will . . .” She trailed off again. Finally, she looked at Pockets. “I know this has been hard on you as well. You’ve had to endure all this and all my hormones and panic attacks and hissy fits and—”

  “You are not a burden, mum.”

  The calm in his voice cracked her and she wept. Holding her face in her hands. He placed a handkerchief on the table in front of her, which she accepted, blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. “Thank you, Pockets.”

  After a quiet minute, he said, “May I say something?”

  She nodded.

  He adjusted his feet. “I’ve been in some places where there is no hope, and yet somehow it swims through the cracks. Rises to the surface. I’ve found hope staring me in the face when reason screamed I had none. No matter what you do—ignore it, shove it in a closet, drown it with drink and pill, or stab it with science, experts, and talking heads—you can’t kill hope. Not in all of human history has hope ever been laid to rest. When we breathe in, it’s the stuff that expands our lungs. It’s the reason we’re not just dust.”

  She tried to laugh. “I thought love did all that.”

  He sucked through his teeth. “It’s tough to tell those two apart, mum. But if you press me, love is what makes us who we are. Hope is how we express us. Hope is love with legs.”

  She laughed and turned sideways, faced him, and blew her nose into his handkerchief. “Never knew you had such a deep philosophical side.”

  Pockets looked around, noting the absence of anyone else. “Sometimes another voice can be a comfort.”

  She stood, wanting to but careful not to cross the line. “Thank you again.” Then she folded the handkerchief and offered to return it.

  “Maybe you better hold on to that.”

  She laughed. “Probably a good idea.”

  Doctors inserted the third egg and put her on active bed rest, during which Pockets was never farther than earshot.

  A month passed and life returned to some version of normalcy, though no one whispered the p word because it was almost too good to be true. To his credit, Syd sobered up. Delayed a project. Stayed home. And took an interest in what interested Joe. They even read a book together. Out loud. Maybe the prospect of fatherhood shook some things loose. Whatever the case, his friends said he’d turned over a new leaf as evidenced by the fact that he made the morning talk-show circuit speaking openly about his sobriety and his desire to be a good father, and poking fun at his own contribution to the process and admitting how, in fact, Joe had done all the work. Given his honest and self-deprecating conversation, he landed on the cover of a parenting magazine. Inside, the article claimed Syd helped make uncomfortable fathers comfortable in that he gave a voice to a very real struggle and what can be a difficult conversation. In an unexpected twist, Google later highlighted one unintended effect of Syd’s efforts. The name “Syd” rose to the top of the list for baby boys that year. While “Joe” took the girls’ title three years running.

  When producers eventually came calling for their golden boy, looking for the star of their next world-saving blockbuster, Syd declined. The doctors had instructed Joe not to walk farther than the kitchen. To get her outside, Syd bought a rolling chair made for the beach. Something with fat tires and wheels that allowed him to push her along the shore. Even came with a sunshade. He’d wake her before the sun, bring her coffee, and push her along the edge of the shore where the water washed over her feet.

  During her forced convalescence, Joe breathed in. Then out. Followed by another in. Trying to will her body to grow something. Which it was doing.

  She spent weeks in bed; she and Syd shared stories, sundown, possible scripts. If ever she and Syd found Camelot, it was here. Alongside the beach. And much of that was to his credit. Syd was becoming who she’d hoped.

  After six weeks, Syd could delay a contract no further, so he tucked her in, boarded a jet to Alaska, and returned to the camera.

  When the spot appeared, followed by another, she tried him on the satellite, but he didn’t answer. Doctors were brought in but there was nothing they could do. Somewhere that night, number three quietly passed out of her life while Pockets sat at the kitchen table, listening to the sound of Joe’s soul cracking down the middle.

  Chapter 37

  After

  Amber had resumed her vigil by the pool by the time I returned in my borrowed kayak. Hat on, top off, she was attempting to garner the attention of every man at the Ritz across the lake, and judging by the number of sunglasses currently poking up above the infinity pool waterfall, she had accomplished her goal. But while Don’s pool deck sat perched on a hill, offering everyone around a great view of his Amber and giving her the attention she craved, it presented me with a problem. Whatever I did would be in plain view unless I waited until dark. And I could only hide under the dock for so long.

  Thanks to Julio, I didn’t have to wait that long. He returned as promised and began trimming the hedges, though he did so now with no shirt and a Rambo-style bandanna. Julio was late twenties, eight-pack abs, and thick gold chains.

  Julio trimmed for the better part of an hour, giving credence to the “perfect” in Perfect Cut. He was good, and I got the feeling he was taking his time this afternoon as his perch on the ladder offered him an unobstructed view of the pool. And Amber. Who, pretending to be oblivious behind the noise-canceling AirPods, feigned indifference despite Julio’s gas-powered, two-stroke Stihl.

  After little more than an hour, Julio made his move. He worked his way around the hedges toward the lake, then back up toward the pool. This put him in line of sight of Amber and forced her to take notice of him. Which she did. She covered with a towel, then beckoned him to the pool deck. Julio pointed at his dirty boots but she waved him on anyway. I had a feeling I was looking at boyfriend number four.

  Looking like a Brazilian jiu-jitsu fighter, Julio approached and the two shared a polite conversation during which Amber made feeble attempts to cover herself. After two or three minutes, she pointed at the fridge and invited Julio to help himself. Which he did. Returning with two beers. When she refused, pointing at her tummy, he opened one and began drinking with a bit of a swagger. He could see where this was going. Husband was away. Leaving the missus all by herself. Not meeting her needs. Julio was the right man at the right place.

  Halfway through his beer, Amber patted the chair next to her and Julio took a seat. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but judging by the body language, Amber was making her pitch while Julio opened the second beer, looking serious and concerned. I couldn’t begin to guess how she was selling it, but Amber was inviting Julio to join the delivery.

  At first, Julio protested. Shaking his head. Waving her off. A true gentleman. But Amber wasn’t even warmed up. She smiled, leaned over, and put a hand on his thigh—then, in a show of sudden discomfort, she placed a hand on her chest, then her head, and then her stomach. Her condition worsening, she lay back, eyes closed, breathing, her towel mostly concealing her chest. As the discomfort grew, she asked for water, saying something about the heat and feeling dizzy. Julio never saw it coming. Finally, she extended her hand, at which point he nodded, helped her stand, and began walking her slowly into the house for what she no doubt intended to be the best ten minutes of his life.

  Once inside, they made their way up the basement stairs toward the kitchen, giving me time to skirt the pool, trace their footsteps, and let myself in the sliding glass doors. Closing the door, I cut the pull cords on the blinds, crept up the stairs, and found Julio rubbing her feet after having put a wet cloth on her forehead. I was just starting to think about knocking him out when I heard her say something along the lines of, “Be right back.”

  When she disappeared into the bedroom, sweaty Julio took a seat on what must have been Don’s ten-thousand-dollar couch, so I crept up behind him, sank one arm beneath his chin, and locked it in my opposite elbow, placing immediate pressure and squeezing. Julio, having been enticed, having had two beers, and expecting a scantily clad Amber, was not thinking self-defense. The move is called a “rear naked choke” for reasons I don’t understand, but the effect was gratifying. Julio went to sleep. I hog-tied him quickly with the cords, shoving the wet washcloth in his mouth and wrapping his own Rambo bandanna around his face and neck.

  Staring down at him as he returned to consciousness, I almost felt sorry for him—and sorry I wasn’t going to be here when Don returned home.

  Amber would not be quite so easy. I had to be gentle while controlling, and I couldn’t risk putting her to sleep. Just then, she called from the bathroom. I could hear water running and see steam rising out from above the door. She called a second time, so I moved to the door, cracked it open, and found her sitting on the edge of the tub, eyes closed, candles lit. Her robe spilling off one shoulder.

  Watching this play out in real time, I marveled at the lengths she was willing to go to pull this off. The yard man of all people. Was there anything she wouldn’t do? But then again, five million dollars was five million dollars.

  Hearing the door swing open, she waved, thinking Julio would walk right in. So, I did, knowing I needed a way to both distract and disorient her. I grabbed a towel and, when I reached the edge of the tub, quickly wrapped it around her face, eyes, and mouth. Then I pulled her forcibly from the edge of the tub. This eliminated her ability to see, breathe, and scream, which meant she’d have to contend first with the towel and then me. Being careful not to bruise her torso, I pulled up on the towel, forcing her head back and flipping her on her side. Straddling her to control her legs, I grabbed both hands and quickly tied them in front of her.

  When her hands were bound, I moved to her feet about the time she was able to shake the towel loose and start screaming. She emitted two or three long screams, telling me to get out of her house, but we were inside and the doors were closed and Don’s yard was huge. No one heard her. When she saw my face, her complexion changed and what before had been a mixture of fear and anger flipped to rage.