Chapter 27 Hawk
HAWK
Daniela’s crying before I even realize what’s happening.
“Hey,” I murmur, turning toward her. “What’s wrong?”
She wipes at her cheek, but another tear slips free. “Nothing,” she says. “It’s just… This waiting area… It reminds me of my father’s office.”
Her voice is tight and strangled. She doesn’t elaborate, and I can tell she’s not going to. I want to press her, but there’s something fragile in her right now. I feel like if I push, she’ll shatter completely.
God knows she has enough other things on her mind.
We walk toward the truck. Did I make a mistake, bringing her here? With everything else going on?
But I need to know.
I need to know what our future looks like. Whether we have one at all.
And she deserves to know, too.
A woman dressed in a tailored brown suit calls her name. Daniela looks at me, hesitant, like she’s considering bolting for the exit. I stand before she can.
“It’s the counseling session,” I say. “It’s mandatory.”
“I don’t want to.”
“They won’t process the test without it.”
She huffs. “Fine.”
“You want me to come with you?”
Her voice is small. “Can you?”
“I can do anything,” I say softly.
She smiles, just barely.
We follow the woman past the lab where Dani’s blood was drawn to an office.
“I’m Dr. Pickway,” she says. “Please take a seat.”
Daniela sits on the sofa in front of the counselor’s desk, and I sit down next to her. Perhaps too close. But she doesn’t seem to mind.
“Ms. Agudelo,” she says, nodding. “I understand you’re here for genetic testing?”
“Yes,” I say. “We’re doing the Huntington’s panel. I called earlier.”
“I was addressing Ms. Agudelo.”
Daniela fidgets. “Yes. But Hawk made all the arrangements, and I want him here for this session.”
Dr. Pickway nods. “Of course. Whatever makes you the most comfortable.”
Daniela’s fingers twist together in her lap. I hate how small she looks in that chair.
I rest my palm against the back of the sofa, close enough to touch her but not actually doing it, because if I do, I’ll want to pull her into me and never let go.
Dr. Pickway folds her hands on the desk. “Today’s session is meant to prepare you both for what comes next. The test has been expedited, so we should have results within a few days.”
A few days. My jaw tightens. It feels like a countdown I didn’t agree to.
Daniela nods once, but she keeps twisting her fingers.
“Before we get into the science,” Dr. Pickway continues, “can you tell me what prompted you to pursue testing now?”
Daniela swallows. “My father told me I carried the gene.” Her voice is so soft I barely catch it. “But I don’t know if that was true. He lied about…a lot of things.”
I reach over and still her hands with mine. I want to take all of it for her.
Dr. Pickway leans forward. “It’s not uncommon for family members to pass along misinformation—sometimes intentionally, sometimes out of fear or misunderstanding. What matters is that now we’ll know for sure.”
Know for sure.
The words hit me like a blow.
“So,” I ask, keeping my voice steady, “what should we expect while we wait?”
“The waiting is often the hardest part,” she says. “You may experience anxiety, mood swings, irritability, trouble sleeping. Sometimes couples feel distant from each other, or overly dependent. There’s no ‘right’ way to react.”
Daniela shakes her head. “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about what this means for him.” She nods toward me.
I feel my chest crack open. “Dani,” I murmur, “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” she says quietly. “I saw your face when the phlebotomist took the blood. You looked like someone ripped your heart out.”
Dr. Pickway glances between us. “It’s normal for partners to experience distress. Huntington’s carries a lot of weight. It’s hereditary, progressive, and there’s no cure. It can change life plans. Family planning. Long-term commitments.”
Daniela flinches.
I tighten my grip on her hands. “We’re not changing anything.”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide and glassy. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Dr. Pickway clears her throat. “These are exactly the conversations we’ll have today.
Not to scare you, just to make sure you’re informed.
No matter what the results are, people live meaningful lives with this gene.
Some carry it and never show symptoms. Others plan ahead with medical, legal, and emotional support. ”
Daniela’s breathing shifts. She’s trying to hold it together, and it’s killing me to watch.
“I need to ask,” the counselor says gently. “Has anyone else in your family been tested?”
“My father…” Daniela closes her eyes. “He didn’t test. He just…said things. Threatened things.”
That old familiar rage twists in my stomach.
“And your mother?” Dr. Pickway asks.
“She died when I was young. I don’t know anything about her medical history.”
The counselor nods, scribbling something. “That’s common too. Many people come in without clear family records. Today we’ll talk about what a positive result means, what a negative one means, and everything in between. This is not a sentence. It’s information.”
Information.
Except it feels like fate is sitting in Dani’s blood on a lab counter somewhere.
Dr. Pickway continues, “Some people prepare for all outcomes. Some prefer not to think ahead until results are in. Where do you two fall?”
Daniela looks at me first.
“This is your call,” I say softly.
“I want to know,” she whispers. “I just…don’t want him to see me as broken.”
My chest caves.
“You're the strongest person I’ve ever met,” I say, my voice low, uneven. “Nothing you face makes you broken.”
She shivers. I want to wrap her in my arms and carry her out of here, far away from anything that can take her from me.
Dr. Pickway gives a sympathetic smile. “We’ll go step-by-step. By the end of this session, you’ll both understand what to expect emotionally, physically, and practically. And we’ll set up resources for support if either of you needs it.”
Daniela nods. A tiny motion. Barely there.
I keep holding her hands.
Because she’s holding me together.
Dr. Pickway turns slightly toward Daniela. “A negative result is the most straightforward. It means you did not inherit the expanded HTT gene. You won’t develop Huntington’s, and you can’t pass it on to any children you may have in the future.”
Daniela exhales next to me, a tiny shift of air against my arm. Not relief—just a momentary loosening of fear.
“And a positive result,” Dr. Pickway continues, her tone careful, “means you did inherit the expanded gene. That means you’ll eventually develop symptoms, though not right away. Sometimes not for many years. The test can’t predict onset age or severity.”
My chest tightens. I already know the facts, but hearing them spoken out loud, directed at Daniela, hits me with the force of a tornado.
“But people live long, meaningful lives before symptoms appear,” Dr. Pickway adds quickly. “And a positive result gives you the opportunity to plan. Not just emotionally, but medically and financially as well. Many people find that empowering rather than limiting.”
Empowering.
Sure. If I weren’t imagining worst-case scenarios stacked end to end.
Dani sits perfectly still, tension radiating off her. Like she’s holding her breath inside her own skin.
“And then,” Dr. Pickway says, “there’s an intermediate result.”
I look at her sharply. “Intermediate?”
“Yes. It means the number of CAG repeats isn’t high enough for the gene to cause Huntington’s in Daniela, but it could expand in the next generation. She’d be healthy her entire life, but any children she has could inherit a fully expanded gene.”
Dani’s fingers twitch in her lap. I slide my hand over hers, threading our fingers together, grounding her even as something icy crawls up my spine.
Dr. Pickway folds her hands together. “That’s why I said this isn’t a sentence. Each possible result carries different implications. Some are frightening. Some are comforting. Some fall into a gray area. But all of them give you information, tools to make decisions that feel right for you.”
Dani looks down at her lap, eyes distant. I wish I could take her chin in my hand and force the world to stop scaring her. But I don’t move. Not yet.
“And whatever the results are,” Dr. Pickway finishes, “you won’t navigate them alone.”
Daniela wipes a few tears from her cheeks. She nods at Dr. Pickway’s words, but she doesn’t look convinced.
One thing I know for sure…
She won’t handle this alone.
Not while I’m breathing.
* * *
We walk out of the testing center together, Daniela’s arm looped through mine. The sun outside is blinding, and for a moment I think about how easy it would be to just keep driving—head west until the road ends, forget all of it.
But that’s not who I am.
Fixers don’t run.
I take her to dinner, though neither of us is really in the mood for it. There’s a little restaurant not far from the center with dim lights and candles on the tables. The kind of place where people are supposed to have meaningful conversations.
We don’t.
She orders tea and stirs it without drinking. The silence between us stretches long and uneasy.
Until I have to say something.
“Once Vinnie finds this Gordon Brown, I’ll handle it.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Handle it?”
“Yeah. Personally. I’ll make sure he never comes near you again.”
She looks away.
Something twists in my chest. “Is that supposed to be a bad thing?”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “Sometimes you fix things so fast, Hawk, I wonder if you ever stop to think about what they cost.”
That stings more than I want to admit.
Before I can respond, she adds quietly, “Where were you earlier today?”
The words hit harder than they should.
I consider lying. Saying I was tracking a lead. Saying I was handling something with Falcon. Saying anything except the truth.
But I’ve done enough lying lately.
I think of Reyes, of the barn, of the favor I still owe.
I take a slow breath. “I had to deal with something,” I say.
Her expression doesn’t change. “Something?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“I know.”
Silence. The tension stretches taut between us, a wire ready to snap.
Finally, I run a hand through my hair. “Look… I can’t tell you everything right now. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I don’t want to drag you deeper into this shit than you already are.”
She stares at me for a long time, her gaze unreadable. Then she nods slowly. “Okay.”
Just that. Okay.
And somehow that hurts worse than if she’d yelled.
I feel like a sack of dog shit.
The waiter drops off our food. The candles flicker, their light catching the edge of her face, and I think about how much I love her. How much she deserves better than the mess I keep dragging her into.
I don’t know what to say to make it right, so I say nothing at all.
She takes a small sip of her tea, eyes downcast. “You think Vinnie’s really close?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “I do.”
She nods again. “Good.”