Underneath or between or above the law was love—and all its distentions. In the face of love, the law was nothing.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.
Literally.
So far Valerie’s love had been for her parents and her sister and Nick. Would she kill to save them? Undoubtedly. Would she kill to avenge them?
Not, she supposed, if she had impregnable faith in the law.
Which she did not. How could she? She was the law—and her faith in herself was ravaged, riddled, rotten with doubt.
Even her questionable love—precarious, unpredictable, incessantly compromised by selfishness—was already more than a match for the law. Imagine what it would become if a child claimed it. Would there be anything she wouldn’t do for a daughter or son? The question was rhetorical to the point of comedy.
And that was what she was looking at, now: the promotion of motherhood to the top of the moral food chain. There was something vulgar and terrifying about it. Yet at the same time, through the swirl of these thoughts, a feeling of inevitability and relief. Almost the way Rachel had reacted to being found out earlier: the dreaded thing come round at last.
* * *
Nick was in the kitchen, cooking, when she entered the apartment. Smells of olive oil and garlic and chili. Her empty stomach—indifferent to the psyche’s big moments—yowled, quietly, and with a reluctant yielding she knew he wanted to make peace. The willingness to make peace was like a palpable presence, in fact, in the yellow of the lamps and the softness of the couch and the dusk in the windows. Last of all, she realized with a kind of foolish surprise, it was in her, too. Love, like a boxer, slumped down on its stool at the end of a bruising round, knees weak, head reeling, piteously in need of the bucket and the sponge and the trainer’s reality-defying optimism. Love went in and out of darkness, small bright stars flaunting their promise of oblivion. Then the bell rang, and all the world’s horror stood up in the opposite corner, and in hopeless commitment Love wobbled to its feet and staggered back into the center of the ring, knowing there would be pain and wondering how long it could possibly last.
For a moment she stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him. His glasses were on his forehead. One shirttail was hanging out of his jeans. He was concentrating. Then he turned and saw her. He put the lid on a saucepan, lowered the heat, came over to her, and put his hands on her hips. She thought: If you touch him, it’s a done deal, beyond recall. Back away now or you’re screwed. This is your last warning.
“Listen to me,” he said.
“What?”
“If you don’t want a kid right now, it’s fine. It’s fine if you don’t want one at all. I know that’s what’s going on with you. I know all of it.”
She stood very still. His hands on her hips were warm weights. She thought about the feeling of cold space (and freedom) that would replace them if she backed away. She was close, so very close, to doing just that. Yet she found herself smiling.
“I’m pregnant,” she said. “I have been for weeks.”
Now it was his turn to go still. His hands remained where they were, but for the moment they’d lost their intelligence. The seconds of silence passed, one after another, each flatly surprised that no sound disturbed its transit. He looked away from her.
“And?” he said.
She knew what he was thinking: How many weeks? There were energies furiously at work in him, trying to calculate, not knowing. He was so completely suspended she almost laughed. Having someone utterly at your mercy was, whether you liked it or not, funny. Why torturers giggled, presumably, going about their dirty business. She suffered from the way her mind worked, its lawless associations. Still, she was stuck with it. She was stuck with herself.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. The natural things are disgusting.
Intellectually, yes, it must be admitted you could be wrong.
Valerie put her hands flat on his chest. Some layer of her being moved gently from her, like a veil being drawn off, slowly. It gave her a feeling of very slightly increased exposure.
“And if I’m wrong about you,” she said, “I’ll kill you.”
ALSO BY SAUL BLACK
The Killing Lessons
LoveMurder
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Saul Black is the author of The Killing Lessons and LoveMurder. He lives in London. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Two
Chapter 33
Part Three
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Also by Saul Black
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
ANYTHING FOR YOU. Copyright © 2019 by Saul Black. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Olga Grlic
Cover photograph of woman © plainpicture / R. Mohr
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-19991-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-19992-8 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250199928
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First Edition: November 2019