I know now. She’s the one Harrington was seeing.
Before I can say anything, a nurse steps out and calls, “Carmen Harrington?”
Harrington.
The name hits my chest.
It’s official.
I swallow and turn, my fingers closing around the medallion at my throat.
“It’s me,” I say, clearing my voice.
The nurse checks her file. “We need to take a blood sample to check your blood type and see if it matches Mr. Harrington.”
I nod.
“You can come with me.”
Judas is still holding my hand. Letting go feels harder than it should, so our fingers brush as I step past him and follow the nurse down the corridor.
I glance back once.
But his gaze is fixed on the floor.
The nurse leads me into a small room on the right. Four white walls, with a single mint green stripe running across them. The smell inside is too sterile. I hate it.
A padded chair is in the center, one armrest angled toward me, already prepared. The nurse moves to the computer, snaps on gloves, and gestures to the chair.
“Have a seat.”
I sit.
She guides my arm onto the padded rest and turns my palm up. My sleeve rolls past my elbow. A blue band tightens around my upper arm, pulling my skin tight.
“Make a fist.”
I do.
Her fingers press along my vein. First she taps, then pauses.
She swabs my skin with alcohol. And all I can see are my scars.Out in the open. Obvious. But she doesn’t say a word about it, she doesn’t even look twice.
“Stay still.”
My face goes cold.
Needles. I hate them.
It’s strange how I can hurt myself without hesitation, but the idea of someone taking a small vial of blood makes my stomach roll. Sweat beads at my hairline. I close my eyes.
It does not help.
When I open them again, Judas is in the doorway. He leans against the frame, his two different colored eyes locked on mine.
I focus on him as the needle slides in. I breathe through my nose. I watch him instead of my arm as dark red fills the thin tube beside me.
The nurse switches the vial without looking up.
