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I froze.

“Chloe?”

The voice came again, urgent now.

I hadn’t even realized I’d pressed her number. Hell, I didn’t remember unlocking the phone.

“Chloe? Answer me. I can hear you breathing, Honey.”

Trenda.

My mind dragged itself through the fog.

“Trenda?” I croaked. My voice sounded wrong. Too thin. Too scraped out.

“Yeah,” she said, gentle and alert at the same time, like she was talking Bella out of a full-blown tantrum. “What’s wrong?”

I tried to think. Tried to organize language. Nothing happened. Thoughts slipped away.

“Chloe, you’re scaring me,” she said. “Talk to me.”

My throat spasmed. I looked around the room as if I’d find the explanation taped to the wall. The room blurred.

“Trenda?” I whispered. “It hurts.”

Her voice sharpened. “What hurts? Did you have an accident? Did you hurt yourself? Hang up. I’ll call 9-1-1.”

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head even though she couldn’t see it. “Insss…inside.” My tongue thickened. “It hurts inside.”

I shuddered, my arm wrapping around my middle. Lower, around my barren womb.

“I can’t have babies. I’ll never have a baby. No Bella. No Drake.” My nose clogged, breath catching in broken little gasps. “No…nobody.”

Was that my voice? That wrecked, empty sound? It didn’t feel like it belonged to me.

Silence pulsed through the phone.

Then, “Where are you? Are you at the house in Jasper Creek? Is Zarek with you?”

I shook my head. Remembering holding little Drake. His eyes looking up, his body solid in my arms, and his baby smell of talcum and baby shampoo.

“Chloe, answer me. Are you at your apartment?”

“Yes,” I breathed. The word was tiny. Like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t.

“Hold on, baby girl,” she said. “I’m coming.”

“Don’t,” I whispered. “I’m fine.”

I’m fine.

God.

How many years had I said that?

When I couldn’t get out of bed—I’m fine.

When I forgot how to eat for three days—I’m fine.