Page 265 of Ricardo

I look back at her. “This is insane.”

“Maybe.”

“This cannot be happening right now.”

Victoria’s expression shifts into one of sympathy.

“It may not be,” she says. “There are many reasons your body could be reacting this way.”

“Shock.”

“Yes.”

“Stress.”

“Yes.”

“Not eating. Lack of sleep. Last night.”

“All of that.”

I nod too quickly.

“All of that,” I repeat.

Victoria reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers.

“And pregnancy is also possible.”

Pregnancy.

My pulse stumbles.

Then too much memory and feeling rushes in at once.

Ricardo’s hands on me.

The storm.

The weeks after.

The way I let myself have him when everything in my life had been built around caution and control and being the version of myself other people could approve of.

I think of Dante in the hospital.

I think of Harrison’s roses.

I think of my apartment door opening and two men lying in wait.

I think of Ricardo at the hospital, at his son's bedside.

And beneath all of that, terrifyingly small and helpless, I think of a child.

Ricardo’s child.

My hand shakes beneath Victoria’s.

“I can’t,” I whisper.