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office, had a checkup, but failed to pee in the cup. Shehad claimed she didn’t have to pee. (How many pregnant women have trouble peeing?) And to top it all off, she said she had made an appointment for a blood test at a Quest Diagnostics later that afternoon. I wasn’t buying any of it anymore. I thanked Vicki for all her help and I hung up the phone.
    Don and I were both now feeling we wouldn’t be having a baby with Samantha but felt the need to see this thing through to the end. We needed closure. Because there was always the chance that Samantha was just nervous and scared and out of money and needed our support. She had a three-year-old son, after all. We wanted to make sure she was okay and her son was being taken care of. We had to see her in person.
    We cleared the rest of the day, hopped on the next plane to Las Vegas, and rented a car when we landed. Samantha texted me directions to the Budget Motel Suites. We drove out past the Strip, past military bases and refineries. We arrived in a part of town that was worlds away from Steve Wynn and Cirque du Soleil and the money and glitz of the “What Happens in Vegas” most people know about. This part of town was just depressing. It was the dirty, tattered hem on Lady Vegas. Since I wasn’t that familiar with this part of town, I’d had no idea where these “suites” were located when I was trolling online for weekly rentals. I felt a wave of guilt at having put her somewhere rundown, but frankly we were way past that now.
    We pulled into the parking lot of the Budget Motel Suites and saw a family of six hanging out by the Dumpster a few feet away from the open door of their room. An old mattress had been thrown out and the kids were using it as a trampoline.It dawned on me that the use of the word “suites” in the name was a deliberate attempt to get unsuspecting losers like me to think there could be a touch of swank to the establishment. But no. There was nothing “suite” about it.
    I texted Samantha, “We’re here.” Don and I sighed deeply, locked the car doors, and headed upstairs to room number 25, Samantha’s age. We knocked, and a few seconds later Samantha answered.
    “Hey guys! Come on in.” Really? Now she’s cheery and hospitable? I stepped into the room, my heart pounding, my face feeling flushed. To say I didn’t feel safe is an understatement—like saying there were just a few butts in the ashtrays. With all the deception and mystery over the past few weeks, I trusted nothing. Was Samantha even her real name? I had this nagging feeling that Don and I would not make it out of Vegas alive. I fully expected Samantha to pull a knife on us, or for her boyfriend to step out of the closet or bathroom wielding a gun. I hated every second of our visit and kept practicing hitting 911 on my cell phone without looking. I was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
    Samantha went to close the front door and I insisted we leave it open. I can’t remember how I rationalized it. I know I was thinking, So people can hear us screaming when you stab us to death! But I said something about feeling sick from the flight and needing air, or better cell reception. She shrugged and headed back into the room.
    Suddenly, the bathroom door opened and I jumped out of my skin as a short, redheaded girl named Loryn emerged.
    “Nobody go in there if you don’t want to die.” Loryn thought this was hilarious.
    I took it literally. “Oh, no thanks. I don’t have to go,” I said. But what I thought was I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!
    Loryn and Samantha started laughing hysterically. “That was my third dump today!” Loryn bragged as she lit a cigarette, ripping hard on the filter. Samantha introduced her as her homeless friend who’d been staying with her for a while. I remembered hearing about Loryn a few phone calls back. She had come into Samantha’s life and basically offered herself as a personal assistant in exchange for a place to