Zeke stopped by our house earlier tonight. He was visiting my brother, and I was relieved that Archie seemed pleased to see him.

Before Zeke descended to the basement, he gave me a present: a framed photograph of a Sevillanas dancer, whose flowing white dress was splashed with crimson polka dots. The picture is compositionally perfect, but my eyes filled because he knew how much I would appreciate the subject matter.

This boy gets me. He understands and supports my dreams, through and through.

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “I only found out because Archie mentioned it the other day.”

I looked at Zeke, with his kind eyes and his brilliant smile, and tried to imagine him as Hope’s father. The name fits, given our mutual love for Emily Dickinson.

It gives me comfort to think that my husband will be Zeke. Despite Archie’s recent misgivings, Zeke is loyal, dependable, hot—I could do a whole lot worse. More importantly, the vision confirms that I’ll be fine without a certain blue-haired boy in my life.

As much as I like Bandit, he’s just someone I met a few days ago. He’s not my destiny, not my fate. I cannot risk the life of my baby, of millions of people, on the hope that he will change.

I ease to the next window. I refuse to think, damn it. At least Bandit’s house is a single, sprawling story. Still not thinking. I wipe my sweaty palms on my leggings—murder black, what else?—and position them under the window frame. The peeling paint scratches my skin. I take a deep breath.

One… Two… Three… Push.

This window actually moves, screeching and screaming against its rusty grooves. I hold my breath, hoping that the Sakdas don’t have a security system. I didn’t notice one last time I was here, but I wasn’t looking, either.

Ten, twelve, fourteen heartbeats race by. No alarm blares. No angry voices demand to know what I’m doing.

I sag against the wooden ledge, limp with relief. As first steps go, this one’s pretty minor. I’ll have to take much harder, more permanent action before the night is over. But I rest a minute anyway. Catch my breath and repeat the mantra.

Kill Bandit. Don’t think. Kill Bandit. Don’t think.

Fortified, at least for the moment, I hoist myself through the window and stumble onto the thick carpet. It’s quiet inside. A clock ticks softly, and a faucet emits a sporadic drip. And my heart. It’s thudding so loudly, I’m surprised I can hear anything else.

I swallow. And immediately have to swallow again. There’s no less than an ocean of spit inside my mouth. Here’s hoping it doesn’t drown me.