I took the seat opposite her, my eyes catching the dull red mark at the base of her neck. She cleared her throat and, looking oddly uneasy, reached into her bag and pushed two documents across the table.
It was a divorce agreement, and the private settlement she'd handed me yesterday.
"You already saw everything yesterday," she said. "So I won't lie. His name is Dylan. I've known him for some time."
"My plan wasn't to get a divorce," she went on, softer now. "But I'm pregnant with his child, and I'm not having an abortion."
Dylan?
My hand paused over the divorce agreement. That name—Dylan—was the same one I'd heard at the police station two days ago. Remembering what happened yesterday, I suddenly understood—though it all still felt ridiculously absurd.
Abigail was pregnant with the man who caused her mother's death?
When I didn't answer, her voice became even gentler. "Julian, he's only twenty-two. For the sake of the years we shared, can you let him go?"
"If you let him go and sign the settlement, I'll give you my house and my car." She smiled, as if making a bargain. "And we've upped the settlement to one hundred thousand."