Chapter 3

03

Old Mr. Dickerson took a critical turn a month later.

Late that night I sat by his bed, watching the numbers jump on the monitor, my chest tight with panic. The doctor had issued a critical-condition notice and told me to notify the family, fast.

I called Roger seven or eight times. No one picked up.

The last time, the call finally connected. But it was a young woman's voice.

"Hello? Who is this? Rog's in the shower."

For a second my head went blank with a low hum. The voice was lazy, coy, a TV playing in the background. Clearly she was at home, or in a hotel.

"Put him on. His father's dying." I kept my voice as level as I could.

"Ugh, what a mood-killer." She muttered it, then came a rustling sound, and then Roger's irritated shout. "Imogen, what's wrong with you, losing your mind in the middle of the night? Don't you know I've got a meeting tomorrow?"

"Your dad's critical. The doctor says come now."

I hung up.

Half an hour later Roger reached the hospital. But he didn't come alone. Trailing behind him was that so-called secretary, a girl who looked barely past twenty, in a tight dress, her face all young and full.

Rose showed up right after, wailing the second she walked in. "Oh, Dad! How did you get this bad?"

Old Mr. Dickerson lay under the oxygen mask, forcing his eyes open.

Roger stood at the bedside. He didn't ask about the condition. Instead he glanced at the secretary, then turned to me. "Since everyone's here, there's something I'll just say straight out."

I looked at him, heart pounding, already sensing what was coming.

"Imogen, let's get divorced." His voice was calm, like he was talking business. "You've seen it yourself. Yolanda and I have been together a long time. She's pregnant. It's a boy. The Dickersons can't be without an heir."

The girl called Yolanda reflexively touched her flat stomach and shot me a look full of challenge.

I said nothing, just turned to Old Mr. Dickerson. He seemed a little clearer now, his eyes wide, looking at Roger, then at the woman.

"Dad." Roger crouched at the bedside and took the old man's withered hand. "The baby in Yolanda's belly is your own grandson. Imogen's been married into this family all these years and never gave us a single child. The Dickerson line can't just end. And these past years, treating your illness has drained us dry. Yolanda's family is in building materials. She can help me out."

Old Mr. Dickerson's lips trembled, his eyes drifting back and forth between me and Roger.

I thought he would curse Roger out. I thought he would do what he used to, that even for the sake of appearances he'd say something fair. After all, for thirteen years it was me who tended to him, me who did a child's duty at his bedside.

But he didn't.

The light in his eyes slowly dimmed, and finally settled on the woman's belly. He let go of the breath he'd been holding, as if giving his consent.

Rose piled on from the side. "Sis— oh, no, Imogen, don't blame my brother. Men, right? Who doesn't want something fresh? Besides, you don't even have a kid. Who's going to look after you when you're old? Take the payout and go. It's better for everyone."

In that moment I heard my own heart break. Not over Roger, but over thirteen years of a heart given away to dogs.

I looked at these people, and a wave of disgust rose in me.

"Fine." My voice came out hoarse.