Page 70 of Sinner’s Torment

“I called Dr. Brennan’s office today,” she said, drying a glass with slow, deliberate movements. “Got you an appointment for tomorrow morning. Eight-thirty.”

My hands stilled in the water. “Mom, you didn’t have to⁠—”

“Yes, I did,” she interrupted gently but firmly. “You’re three months pregnant, Brandy. You need to see a doctor. You need to make sure everything’s okay with the baby. That’s not negotiable.”

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her I’d already seen a doctor back in Diamond Creek, that Dr. Joyce had confirmed everything was progressing normally, that I didn’t need another appointment so soon. But the words died in my throat because I could see the worry etched into the lines around her eyes, the tension in her shoulders that said she’d been carrying this concern since the moment I’d told her about the pregnancy.

“Okay,” I said quietly, pulling my hands from the water and reaching for the towel she offered. “Okay. I’ll go.”

Relief flooded her features, softening the worry just slightly. “Good. I’ll drive you. We’ll leave at eight.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” I started, but she was already shaking her head.

“I’m coming,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “You’re my daughter. I’m coming.”

And that was that.

What I hadn’t expected was Torment insisting on coming too.

He appeared at breakfast the next morning—him and Mercy both, looking like they’d barely slept. The tension from dinner the night before still hung in the air between all of us, thick and suffocating. My father sat at the head of the table, silent and watchful, his coffee cup cradled in both hands like he was trying to warm himself from the inside out. My brothers had already left for work, and the house felt too quiet, too small for all the unspoken words filling it.

“I’m going with you,” Torment said when my mother mentioned the appointment. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a request. It was a statement of fact, delivered in that controlled, clinical tone he used when he’d made up his mind about something and wasn’t going to be swayed.

I opened my mouth to protest, but my mother beat me to it. “That’s fine,” she said, pouring herself another cup of coffee. “The more support Brandy has, the better.”

Support. The word felt strange, foreign, like something from a language I’d never quite learned to speak. But I didn’t argue. Didn’t have the energy to fight about it. I just nodded and finished my toast in silence while Torment watched me with those dark, unreadable eyes.

The clinic was a small brick building on the edge of town, nestled between a pharmacy and a hardware store. It had the kind of generic, utilitarian architecture that screamed “small-town medical facility”—functional but not particularly welcoming. The parking lot was half-empty when we pulled in, my mother’s sedan taking up a spot near the entrance. Torment and Mercy had followed in the large black SUV they’d arrived in yesterday, and I watched in the rearview mirror as they parked a few spaces away.

When my father climbed out of my mother’s car slowly, his movements deliberate, I saw Mercy tense slightly as he approached. But my father just nodded at them both, his expression unreadable, and fell into step beside my mother as we all made our way toward the entrance.

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and old magazines. A receptionist with kind eyes and graying hair smiled at us from behind a sliding glass window, handing my mother a clipboard with forms to fill out. I sank into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, hyperaware of Torment sitting beside me, his presence a solid, immovable force. Mercy and my father stood near the door, talking in low voices I couldn’t quite make out, and my mother sat on my other side, filling out paperwork with the kind of focused efficiency that came from years of managing a household.

“Brandy Griffin?” A nurse appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand, her scrubs decorated with cheerful cartoon animals that felt absurdly out-of-place given the tension crackling through our group.

I stood, my legs feeling unsteady, and my mother rose with me. Torment followed without a word, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him to stay behind. The nurse led us down a narrow hallway to a small examination room, the walls painted a pale, soothing blue that did nothing to calm the anxiety churning in my stomach.

“Go ahead and have a seat on the table,” the nurse said, gesturing to the paper-covered examination table in the center of the room. “Dr. Brennan will be with you in just a few minutes. We’ll start with some routine questions and then do an ultrasound to check on the baby.”

Ultrasound. The word sent a jolt of something through me—fear, maybe, or anticipation, or some twisted combination of both. I climbed onto the table, the paper crinkling loudly beneath me, and my mother took the chair beside it. Torment stood against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression carefully neutral. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched just slightly too tight.

Dr. Brennan was a woman in her late fifties with short silver hair and a no-nonsense demeanor that reminded me of my high school principal. She entered the room with a warm smile, shaking my mother’s hand first, then mine, before turning her attention to the chart in her hands.

“So, Brandy,” she said, settling onto a rolling stool and wheeling closer to me. “Your mother tells me you’re about three months along. Is that right?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice coming out smaller than I’d intended. “Around thirteen weeks, I think.”

“And have you been experiencing any complications? Bleeding, severe cramping, anything like that?”

I shook my head. “No. Nothing like that. Just... the usual stuff. Morning sickness. Fatigue.”

“That’s good,” Dr. Brennan said, making notes on her chart. “And you’ve been taking prenatal vitamins?”

“Yes,” I lied, because I hadn’t been able to afford them back in Diamond Creek and hadn’t thought to ask my mother to buy them yet. But Dr. Brennan just nodded, seemingly satisfied.

She asked more questions—about my medical history, my family’s medical history, whether I’d been exposed to any harmful substances or medications. I answered as best I could, hyperaware of Torment listening to every word, cataloging every detail like he was building a case file in his mind. When she asked about the father’s medical history, I hesitated, glancing at Torment. He stepped forward slightly, his voice steady as he provided the information she needed, and something about the way he spoke—calm, clinical, like he was discussing a patient rather than his own child—made my chest tighten.

“Alright,” Dr. Brennan said finally, setting her chart aside. “Let’s take a look at this baby, shall we?”