Want

Thriller short story

Jan 07, 2026

Taped to the pizzeria window, the missing poster has no gender.

Baby X was cut from the womb of an unknown, deceased woman found on the Highline Canal 12/24/25. Call Denver Police if you have any information about the mother or the location of the baby.

The photo of the dead woman isn’t graphic. It’s unsettling in that artistic-horror-movie way—a reconstruction made with AI. She’s meant to look alive, but the skin is too smooth, the eyes too dull. Sharp cheekbones, blond mid-length hair. A stranger. Her face only familiar because of all the news coverage.

How long have I been tracing the curve of my own inflated belly? If it was me dead and gutted on some trail, I would at least have a name. My husband would lead search parties, my mom would fly in from Alaska, the barista at the local Starbucks would call the tip line and recite my daily order.

The whole of me summarized: Avelyn Parker. CU graduate. Mediocre artist. First-time mom. Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew.

Maybe I should write my son’s name on my skin with a Sharpie. D a n i e l. Or better yet, get a tattoo. Can pregnant women get tattoos? The barrage of thoughts makes me turn away from the poster. Ultimately, whatever decisions lead this lady to be dead and nameless in a ditch have nothing to do with me. Some people just have terrible luck.

Suddenly, I’m too aware of how alone and exposed I am on the curb in front of this restaurant. I refocus my gaze past the poster, through the window. There is Josie—an anchor to my safe life. She’s wearing a neon orange shirt over jeans. My sweatpants and maternity tee feel sloppy in comparison.

Inside, the warmth and the smell of baked cheese waft through the air, fusing with my hair and erasing all thoughts of the dead woman.

“Avelyn,” Josie lights up. “I’d hug you, but-” She points at our comically large bellies.

I met Josie in one of those new-age prenatal classes. A snarky comment whispered to no-one, and suddenly we were trying to hide our giggles from the teacher’s glare. After a few months of weekly meetings, Josie has become one of my closest friends.

“Terrible what happened to her, hm?” She nods over at the poster without actually looking at it.

I nod, hoping we don’t linger on this. Death should be the furthest thing from our minds.

When the pizza is consumed and the conversation seems to be winding down, I reach for my wallet.

“Oh,” Josie exclaims. “I completely forgot. My mom’s neighbor gave me a breast pump, but I already ordered one through insurance. If you don’t have one yet, I’d love to pass it to you.”

“That would be amazing.” While my husband and I are comfortable financially, between furniture, car seats, and diapers, the expenses are piling up much faster than I imagined.

“I’ll drive us to my place and you grab it, yeah? Otherwise, I’ll forget again. I swear,” she laughs. “This baby has turned my brain into Swiss cheese.”

I glance at my phone. I’d love to go home and take a nap before tackling the laundry and the dishes, but the hundreds of dollars I’ll save on the pump makes delaying the nap worth it.

We plop into Josie’s sedan with the grace of hippos. Pop music and a too-strong vanilla scent strum the first chords of a headache. I can’t wait to go home. Luckily, the drive is only ten minutes.

We pull up to a modest townhouse in Aurora. Josie’s irises are starting to bloom. All yellow. Everything is so precise, I’m glad she’s never seen my patchy front lawn.

“Do you maintain all this yourself?” I can’t imagine how she would, with the baby being nearly full term.

“My mom’s a big help,” she laughs.

We don’t talk again, until we’re in the foyer. Another flawless environment. I was expecting something more bright, eclectic even, based on her colorful outfits. This is nearly clinical.

“The pump is in my bedroom.”

I take a step to follow her.

“Take off your shoes, please.” My body grows hot at the sound of her annoyance. I’m a terrible guest.

With bare feet on cold tile, I follow her down the hallway. She opens one of the doors.Before I realize what’s happening, a force pushes me inside, knocking me off balance. I stumble, feet dancing frantically to prevent me from falling. I catch myself, plant a palm on a wall. It’s too smooth.

The room is covered in plastic. Not a single piece of furniture. Plywood on the window. I look up. A ceiling light emits a warm glow.

“What the fuck?” I turn to face Josie. Behind her, the door is dotted with locks.

She reaches for her stomach, pulls up her shirt, then reaches around and clicks something. The belly I have seen grow over our short friendship tumbles away from her body. A thud when it hits the floor.

“Josie?” I need to say something smart, something convincing. There has to be a way out. Adrenaline floods my body, making words impossible to find. Except for one. “Please?” I whimper.

“I know what I did wrong last time,” Josie says, unafflicted. “This time, I’ll get what I want.”

If you like this story, check out my other short thrillers: