“Did you?”
Truth is, nothing he’s saying is wrong.
He’s right. Last night might’ve ruined all my plans. I’ve worked toward this for years.
Ever since that smug asshole Nick Dixon showed up and told me that he bought the prison, that he was providing for my daughter, that he was her family now.
I think, before that moment, I might’ve even forgiven Lucia. But to hear that she had a new family, that she didn’t need her old one… It lit a new fire in me.
And now, all that might be gone.
The line of heat in my chest is anger at myself, not at Roberto. I set my cup down before I crack it.
“Yes, I did.” I give him a cold look.
He studies me like he isn’t sure whether to believe me or not. That irritates me, too.
“Good,” he finally says.
My jaw tightens. He sees it and softens a degree. “Luca, I’m not trying to cut you off at the knees. I’m trying to keep you standing. You’ve got work to do that isn’t… this.”
He’s right, and I know it.
“And if I need to reach her for something case-related?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.
“You don’t,” he says. “I do. You touch nothing.”
“Fine,” I say.
He exhales. “Thank you.”
He straightens and gets back to official business.
Chapter Sixteen
Elena
My career is over.
I sit on my couch and stare at the phone in my hand like something might change if I hold still long enough. The call log sits there, bland and unforgiving: UNKNOWN—two minutes, thirty-three seconds.
I can still hear the nurse’s voice, kind and practical. “Your serum HCG is positive, consistent with early pregnancy. Based on your dates, approximately five weeks. We’ll want you to start a prenatal, avoid alcohol, and schedule an ultrasound at eight weeks. Congratulations!”
My career is over. My life is over.
The room is the same room it was yesterday. Gray couch, throw blanket folded on the arm, a plant that’s barely holding on, blinds angled down because habits are hard to unlearn.
The TV reflects me as a dark smear. The place smells faintly like coffee and the lotion I used this morning.
My thumb hovers over “call back,” like I’ll ask them to re-run the blood because the lab mixed mine up with someone else’s.
That’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. The test I bought two days ago—thirty miles out of town at a pharmacy where no one knows my face—didn’t blink or give me a maybe.
Two lines. Then another two and another, because I bought three tests like a crazy person.
Then a same-day appointment even farther away, a waiting room with outdated magazines, a nurse who didn’t look at me too long, a needle, and a neutral smile.
And now this.
