Convicted (Consequences)

couldn’t bear to hurt anyone else. If Madeline’s assessment was true then Phil was right—his leaving was best. “Maybe someday—”
    He interrupted, “I’ll leave you my number, but remember—only make emergency calls—and also—for you and your baby’s safety—don’t contact anyone but me or the FBI.”
    Claire swallowed and nodded.
    Before she could think of anything else, Phil was gone. An overwhelming sense of seclusion engulfed the room as she watched the door shut. Inhaling deeply, Claire fought the feeling of suffocation, suddenly threatening her ability to breathe. When the air finally filled her lungs, a sob erupted from the depth of her chest. The trip from Venice had taken days. They’d created an intricately woven web designed to detour anyone’s efforts in finding them. Suddenly, the trip and Phil’s departure were too much. Claire collapsed on her big, lonely bed.
    The ceiling fan that moved the hot, sticky, midmorning air did nothing to cool the room. Despite the oppressing heat, Claire wrapped herself in the soft comforter and cried herself to sleep.
    When she woke, her eyelids felt swollen. Claire wasn’t sure how long she’d slept. The clock near the bed read 3:18, and the sun on the horizon told her it was afternoon—not morning. Rubbing her temples, Claire realized she needed food to help her aching head and settle her nerves.
    As she neared the table by her door, she knew Madeline had been in her room. There was a pitcher of water and a covered bowl within a bowl of ice. Lifting the lid, Claire’s stomach growled as she saw the luscious fruit. She tried not to think about Phil or being alone; instead, she ate the fruit, drank the water, and talked out loud to her baby. Perhaps if she explained how everything would work out, in a calm, reassuring voice, then she’d believe it too?
     
     
    Within days, the customary staff/lady of the house, protocol was forgotten. Claire spent hours with Madeline in the state-of-the-art kitchen, learning to cook foods she’d never previously tried. She also spent time with Francis, caring for the tropical gardens and fruit trees.
    Madeline arranged for Claire to visit the doctor, and Francis accompanied her. Traveling by boat was something that would take time to get used to. Once on the mainland, Claire loved how Francis helped her feel welcome and secure.
    She was both relieved and happy to learn that the doctor Phil promised truly did exist. He was educated in the UK and spoke English as well as many of the native languages. His clinic was modern and even had an ultrasound. Claire was now twenty-six weeks into her pregnancy. Since it had been over a month since her last visit, the doctor recommended an ultrasound. The image amazed Claire—so unlike the original peanut-shaped picture she’d shown to Tony. This time, she saw her baby’s profile, as well as, little hands and little feet. When he asked if she knew the sex of her child, Claire remembered the conversation she’d never had with Tony; the one asking him to go with her to her next appointment. With tears in her eyes, Claire replied, “No, doctor, I don’t, and I don’t want to know—not yet.” He willingly kept the information hidden.
    Every midday and evening, Claire would sit down to eat with Madeline and Francis. The idea of eating each meal alone was too daunting. Within no time at all, meals became Claire’s favorite time of day. She loved to watch the two of them interact, as Madeline’s expression absolutely glowed when she was near Francis. They had so many stories to share; Claire could sit and listen for hours. To Madeline’s insistence, each meal began with a prayer. It was a ritual Claire hadn’t practiced since she was young, and after so much change and discord in her life, she found it comforting. It wasn’t what Claire imagined her life would be, but at least she felt safe and accepted. Considering everything she’d endured—that was a lot—more than she could ever ask for...

 
     
     
    Those who have trusted where they ought not, will surely mistrust where they ought not.
    —Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach
     
     
     
    Although it was only a little over two weeks since Tony was with the FBI in Boston, it seemed like a lifetime had passed. Even he didn’t recognize his reflection in the mirror. His beard growth and unkempt hair, along with his uncustomary clothes, created a person Tony was tired of being. As he lay within the hostel in Geneva, he