"I don't want—"
"You don't have to read it now. Or ever. But it's yours to decide." She places it on the bedside table, just out of reach but visible. "Sometimes the hardest prison to escape is the one we build from other people's sins against us."
"He chose war over me. His own sister."
"Aye. And you chose a love that started a war. Both of you choosing things that burn everything down." She stands, joints creaking. "The question now is whether you'll let it all stay ash or try to build something new."
"Stress kills," she says. "Seen it enough in my seventy years. But so does unfinished business. Untied knots. Unspoken words." She pauses at the door. "I'll be holding a special service tomorrow. Neutral ground. Hospital chapel. Both clubs invited to pray for this baby. Separately, of course—Coyote Fangs at noon, Talons at one."
"Miguel won't come."
"Already confirmed he will. Seems even men who've forgotten God remember Him when babies are dying." She looks back at me. "Your young man asked if you'd see him. Just five minutes. Supervised, if you prefer."
"I can't. The stress—"
"Will be there whether you see him or not. Question is whether you want to carry it alone or start laying it down." She adjusts her habit. "Think on it. The baby needs both parents whole, not broken. And right now, you're both shattered glass trying not to cut anyone but yourselves."
She leaves me with that image—Zane and me, broken glass. Our baby growing in the spaces between our sharp edges, trying not to get cut.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Zane:
I know you said no contact. I'm sorry. Delete this if you need to. But I wanted you to know: I had all the surveillance destroyed. Every file, every photo, every transcript. Burned it all. Not asking for forgiveness. Just wanted you to know it's gone. All of it. You're free.
I read it three times before deleting it, but the words burn themselves into my brain anyway.You're free.As if freedom is possible when you're chained to someone by DNA replicating inside your womb. As if destroying evidence erases violation. As if anything is ever really gone once it's been seen.
But something in my chest loosens, just slightly. A fist unclenching one finger at a time.
The baby moves—not the frantic movements from before but something softer. A roll, maybe. A stretch. Signs of a nervous system that might be calming, might be finding peace in the chaos.
I text back from my own number, two words:
Five minutes.
Then I delete that too, but I know he screenshots everything now. Know he'll be here within seconds of reading it. Know I'm opening a door I might not be able to close.
But Sister Margaret was right. Broken glass cuts deepest when you try to hold it alone.
The door opens ninety seconds later. He looks like death warmed over—hollow eyes, stubble past fashionable into desperate, the kind of weight loss that happens when you forget your body needs fuel. He stops just inside the doorway, like there's an invisible line he won't cross.
"Hi," he says, and his voice cracks on that single syllable.
"You look like shit."
"You look beautiful."
"I'm covered in four days of sweat and mag sulfate. I smell like a hospital."
"You're alive. The baby's alive. That's beautiful to me."
We stare at each other across eight feet that might as well be eight miles. The monitor continues its rhythm—baby's heartbeat, my heartbeat, the spaces between where his should be.
"You burned it all?" I finally ask.
"Everything. Tommy witnessed it. Every photo, every file, every backup. It's gone."
"But not from your memory."
"No," he admits. "Not from there."
