Chapter 17
17
Christa
I t’s been quiet. Spike hasn’t caught any new activity in the city’s dark web as far as I’m concerned.
Coast looks clear for now , his last message reads.
I have seen nothing other than that one note , I reply, fingers tapping across my smartphone screen as I rush through a maze of corridors on my way to a briefing in the developers’ room.
You’re fine , Spike writes. I’m tapped into your apartment building’s security system. Got facial recognition software running, just in case.
I send off a quick thank you and tuck my phone away. I can’t shake the persistent queasiness in the back of my throat. It follows me everywhere and it loves rearing its ugly head whenever I eat. At the same time, everything I eat tastes better than ever before—yet I can barely keep it down, especially in the morning.
“Christa, come on.” Colin steps out of the developers’ room with a worried look on his face. “We’re already late.”
“Sorry. I had something to take care of,” I reply, picking up the pace. “We’re good. I have everything uploaded into the cloud; don’t worry.”
“Not worried. I just want to get this over with so we can get back to finishing the beta version,” he says. “We’re so close.”
“Don’t I know it.” Yet as soon as I walk into the developers’ room, my knees soften a little too much.
“Are you okay?” Colin asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“You look pale.”
“Paler than usual?” I try to laugh it off while remembering passed a staff bathroom on my way here. It’s close enough, in case of an emergency. Maybe I should see a doctor. Maybe it’s more than just stress.
One of the developers greets me with a broad smile. “Finally! Come on in! Josie is about to put the slides up.”
Cold sweat seeps through my skin, causing shivers to run down my spine. I don’t even register the fact that everyone is staring at me. Why are they staring at me?
“We’ve made great progress on the back end, but we need your input on the aesthetic. There were a few snags in the demo trials in our team,” Josie tells me.
“That’s alright. Whatever it is, we can iron out the kinks,” I manage.
The whole room starts spinning while I gather enough spatial awareness to make my way over to the chair nearest me.
“Christa,” another developer comes up to me. “You don’t look so hot.”
“Are you okay?” Josie asks.
Their voices sound more like echoes, farther and farther away, while my field of vision fades into a deep darkness. I’m losing consciousness, and I’m losing it fast. My breath is shallow. My limbs feel weak. I’m hot and cold at the same time.
“No, I don’t… I don’t think I’m okay.”
It’s all I get to say as I fall. Someone catches me before I hit the floor.
“Call an ambulance!”
I linger in a bittersweet darkness for what feels like an eternity. Oddly enough, the fact that I’m aware of my current state comes with a peculiar sense of comfort and peace. My pragmatic side tells me I’m not dead. Death does not know self-awareness.
Machines beep.
Voices scuttle across my mind. They’re outside voices.
Paramedics. Then nurses. The on-call doctor who wants fluids pumped into me.
“Start an IV,” he says.
I feel the needle pricking my forearm; I want to complain about the discomfort, but I’m too weak. Fading in and out of an even deeper slumber, I lose track of what is real and what is purely a product of my own frazzled thought processes.
“Who’s her emergency contact again?”
“It says here on her file. The paramedics got it from her phone.”
“Her aunt should be here shortly,” another nurse chimes in. “I called her from the patient’s phone directly.”
“Good. Let’s run some blood tests. Go for the usual markers, first,” the doctor says. “Keep pumping her with fluids and vitamins. She’s showing some mild deficiency symptoms, judging by her skin and fingernails.”
The deep sleep catches me again.
By the time I come to and open my eyes to see the white ceiling lights of my hospital room, I feel better. Livelier, even. The nausea has subsided—finally, after two weeks of battling with my own burned-out stomach. My lips feel dry. I’m thirsty.
“Christa?” Aunt Mary’s voice draws me into the present.
I look around, registering the white walls, the pale gray blanket covering my lower body. The IV connecting my forearm to a saline and vitamin bag. The clip on my index finger that translates my vital functions onto a screen with a steady beep. And sitting next to my bed with a worried frown is my Aunt Mary.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“You’re okay,” she says, but her voice doesn’t exactly match her words.
“What happened?” I ask groggily while I try to discern what I remember from what I dreamed. “How long have I been out of it?”
Aunt Mary takes a deep breath and crosses her arms. “You’ve done did it this time, foolish girl,” she grumbles.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course, you don’t understand because you clearly have no idea what unprotected sex can lead to. I thought we had that talk in high school. In fact, I specifically remember you giving me quite the lip about it.” She pauses, but only for a hot second so she can put on a mocking grimace and mimic a nasal teen’s voice. “I’m old enough to know what I’m doing, Aunt Mary. Condoms are a thing, Aunt Mary.”
“Wait, what?” I croak, suddenly processing what she’s just said.
She takes another deep breath before she answers. “You’re pregnant, Christa.”
“Give me a second to pull myself together before you tear me a new one, okay?” I groan and sit up while she sets an extra pillow behind my back for support. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She sighs, unable to take her worried eyes off me. “When the hospital called, I thought I’d lost you. You gave me such a scare.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’ve been so nauseated lately. I thought it was just the stress.”
“The stress of the job? Of your argument with Teagan?”
“Of a lot of things, to be perfectly candid,” I exhale sharply. “I didn’t even stop to consider that I might be pregnant.”
I’ve been too busy being worried about the Mancinis finding me in Portland. About Teagan’s reaction to my relationship with her brothers. Good grief, this is just bouncing from bad to worse. A pregnancy should be cause for joy and celebration.
“I’m so sorry, Aunt Mary,” I say, tears suddenly pricking my eyes.
“Well, I’m guessing it wasn’t planned,” she replies. “I’m also guessing River Hawthorne doesn’t know.”
My blood runs cold as I realize it, too. River is just one possible father of my baby. One of three. Oh, God, I could laugh if this wasn’t a dire situation. I can’t be pregnant. This is the worst possible time to be pregnant.
Yet I cradle my lower belly, now aware of the life growing inside me.
A little human, waiting to come into the world.
“Aunt Mary, no one can know,” I say, taking deep breaths of my own as the beeping on my monitor intensifies from the shock and anxiety.
“Christa, a Hawthorne is responsible. They are loaded. Stinking rich. You need to tell him and make sure he does right by you!” She shakes her head. “River is a good man. I don’t know him as well as you, clearly… but I know him well enough. He’ll step up. I’m sure of it.”
“No, please. I’m serious. Let’s keep this between us for now. Please.”
“Why?” She sounds downright defeated.
“Because I don’t know what I’m going to do yet,” I say, trying to find the right words to explain without telling her everything. It’s for her own good. The fewer people know about my situation with Perry-Sage and the Mancinis, the better. It will be easier for me to sever all ties and just disappear, if push comes to shove. “I don’t know where I stand in this relationship or how it’s going to turn out. I’m still trying to figure things out. Please, Aunt Mary. It’s my decision, my baby. I know what I have to do. I just need the time and space to do it.”
“When Teagan finds out—”
“She won’t find out from you, will she?”
The pained look on Aunt Mary’s face tells me she will respect my decision. “No. Not a peep out of me, Christa.”
“Let me get my bearings. Let me get back on my feet. Talk to the doctor, see what prenatal vitamins I need to start taking and all the other stuff. I have a lot to figure out on my own first.”
“I’m here for anything you need.”
“Thank you. That means more than you know.”
One thing is clear. It’s not just my life I need to safeguard. It’s this little one’s, too. Whoever sent that note will try again. A different method. A worse approach. The other shoe will drop, eventually.
And if I do have to run, then I can’t have the Hawthornes turning the entire world upside down looking for me and their baby.
It doesn’t matter how deeply I feel for them.
All that matters is giving my baby a chance.