Chapter 17
CARRIE
Idon’t make it far before my legs start to shake.
Guilt and confusion stick to my skin, crawling all the way down to my bones.
My pulse hammers behind my eyes. What the hell am I doing?
With Levi in the library, with Nico now, one after the other.
What kind of person does that? Was it even real, or just another desperate grasp for comfort in a place where comfort doesn’t exist?
I wrap my arms tight around myself as I rush down the hallway, not caring that my shoes squeak on the linoleum.
The air is stale, thick with that chemical lemon-cleaner smell that never covers up the underlying sweat, fear, and institutional rot.
The overhead lights are too bright, buzzing in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Every door is heavy and metal, painted a beige that’s supposed to be calming, but all it does is remind me of old bones and things that don’t heal.
My reflection flashes by in the small glass window of each office, my face pale, eyes too big.
I don’t see the nurse until it’s too late—she’s coming down the hallway, keys jangling, white shoes planted. She frowns, looking me up and down, suspicion sharpening every line of her face.
“Carrie? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, not meeting her gaze.
She looks behind me. “What were you doing in the infirmary?” she asks, her voice flat, unreadable.
For a heartbeat, my mind goes blank. I scramble to remember the layout, the rules, every possible excuse that doesn’t sound like a lie. “I—I had a headache,” I manage. “Just needed something for it. I thought maybe I could get some Tylenol.”
She raises her brows. “That’s interesting. I locked the door. Had a high-security prisoner inside. No one’s supposed to be in there without clearance.”
For a second, all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears. My mouth is dry, but I force myself to nod, to hold her gaze. “I know. The door was locked, so I left. I didn’t get in.”
Her stare lingers too long, like she’s weighing the truth in my words. I try to seem small, unthreatening, just another frazzled staffer in too-tight shoes.
Finally, she nods once, brisk and businesslike, and turns away to unlock the door and disappear inside.
I wait until she’s gone before I let my shoulders sag.
My hands are trembling. My breath comes out in little shudders.
I want to curl up on the ugly tiled floor and let it all wash over me, but there’s nowhere safe in here.
Not for me, not for the men, not for anyone.
I press a hand to my stomach. Guilt, longing, and self-disgust twist inside me, sharp as glass. What am I even doing? I’m supposed to be helping them, not falling apart, not losing myself in touches that don’t fix anything.
I walk faster, head down, doing my best to disappear into the beige walls.
My thoughts keep spinning back to the nurse, hoping she doesn’t say anything to Mrs. Jackson.
If she asks, Mrs. Jackson will know I never needed the nurse—she has a spare key to the infirmary which I took off her without telling her.
One more loose thread for me to trip over.
The shame digs in deeper. I can’t stop thinking about Jace.
I scanned every face in the rec hall earlier, hoping for a glimpse of him, even a scowl from across the room.
He wasn’t there. That means he’s still in solitary.
Locked away, all because he tried to protect me.
Because I let things get out of control.
I press my hand to my belly, feeling the sick twist of dread settle low and heavy.
After what happened with Rodriguez at the pizza place, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that something’s off.
The way my stomach turned, the way I had to run to the bathroom and throw up before he could interrogate me any further—it was more than just nerves.
That night, I lay awake in my motel room, the harsh orange light from the street bleeding through the curtains.
I counted back the days, trying to remember the last time I had my period.
It’s always been unpredictable—sometimes late, sometimes skipped entirely.
I told myself it was just my weight, stress, the chaos of my life.
Easier to blame that than face the truth.
But it’s been weeks. Maybe more. Every time I think about going to the doctor, my chest locks up, icy and cold. What would I even say? I can’t handle another secret. Not now, not on top of everything else.
I keep my hand pressed to my stomach, half-afraid, half-hopeful. Could it be possible? Or is this just another way my body is betraying me, making everything harder, messier, more dangerous? I’m too much of a coward to find out. There’s too much riding on me already.
I move down the hallway, shoes squeaking, wishing for the hundredth time that I could turn invisible. If the nurse talks to Mrs. Jackson, if anyone starts asking questions, the whole thing could come crashing down.
Jace is in solitary because of me. Levi and Nico are at each other’s throats. The ATF is circling, waiting for me to screw up. And I can’t even get my own body to cooperate.
I blink back tears, refusing to let them fall. Not here.
The next morning, I wake before my alarm.
I stare at the ceiling of my motel room, the ancient air conditioner clicking in the window, the neon motel sign painting everything in cold pink stripes.
My stomach is in knots. My hands shake as I pour coffee I can’t drink, get dressed in clean jeans and a sweater, tie my hair back with trembling fingers.
I look at myself in the mirror, circles under my eyes, color gone from my cheeks.
The streets are half-empty when I call a rideshare.
The driver barely glances at me as I sit in the back, hugging my purse, knees bouncing with every bump.
The clinic is three miles out, a squat brick building tucked behind a pawn shop and a payday loan place.
The sign says Women’s Health & Family Planning in faded blue.
I slip inside, the glass door clattering shut behind me.
The waiting room smells like antiseptic and old magazines. A mother with a toddler sits in one corner, a woman with a bandaged hand at the other. I fill out the clipboard, my handwriting almost illegible, and hand it back to the receptionist, who doesn’t smile.
They call my name after twenty minutes. I follow the nurse through a maze of narrow hallways painted pastel green, every step making me want to turn back.
She’s kind, all business. She hands me a cup, shows me to a tiny bathroom.
I close the door, lock it, and sit on the toilet, staring at the old sticker on the back of the door—You’re not alone—before I finally manage to pee.
When I come out, the nurse takes the sample and leaves me alone in the exam room. The paper on the table crinkles under me. My palms sweat. I count the tiles on the floor, read the faded posters about prenatal vitamins and birth defects, feel the seconds drag.
The doctor knocks quietly before entering. She’s older, Indian, with silver-streaked hair and the kindest eyes I’ve seen in months. She checks my chart, smiles gently, and sits beside me. “Carrie? I’m Dr. Patel. You did a pregnancy test this morning.”
I nod, throat tight.
She takes my hand, warm and reassuring. “It’s positive, sweetheart. You’re pregnant.”
I close my eyes. I don’t faint, but I feel close. I grip the edge of the table. “Are you sure?”
She nods. “The test is very clear. I’d like to do an ultrasound, just to see how far along you are.”
I nod again, unable to find words. The nurse comes in and helps me onto the table, raises my shirt, spreads cool gel across my lower belly. Dr. Patel presses the probe to my skin. The machine whirs, and after a moment, a little flicker of movement appears on the black-and-white screen.
“There,” she says softly, turning the monitor toward me. “That’s your baby.”
The room spins and steadies again. My eyes fill with tears. I blink them away, trying to memorize every pixel on the screen, the faint pulse, the beginning of a heartbeat. A grainy miracle, so impossibly small.
Dr. Patel prints out a picture and hands it to me. “You’re about six weeks along, Carrie. Are you feeling okay?”
I nod, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I guess I am now.”
She waits a moment, then asks gently, “Do you know who the father is? Sometimes that helps us estimate things, but if you’re not sure, that’s okay too.”
I look up at the doctor. She’s a kind lady. I feel like I don’t have to lie to her. “I…I don’t know. It could be my ex, Jinn. Or…” I almost say their names, but the words catch. “There were others, more recently. I’m not sure.”
Her face is soft, never judging. “It’s alright. This happens more than you think. If you decide you want to know, we can help with paternity tests later on.”
For a second, I wish desperately that someone—anyone—was here with me.
Even Marcy, after all that’s happened, would be better than this hollow silence.
I wish for Levi, for Nico, for Jace—someone to hold my hand, to squeeze my shoulder, to help me face the future. But I’m alone. And I have to be strong.
“Do you want to talk to a counselor?” Dr. Patel asks. “Or is there someone I can call for you?”
I shake my head. “No. Thank you, but…I’ll figure it out.”
She helps me clean up and hands me a packet of papers—prenatal vitamins, instructions for the next appointment, emergency numbers. I tuck the ultrasound photo into my purse, holding it like it’s made of glass.
I step out into the weak sunlight, my world turned upside down. I’m pregnant. Alone in a strange town, living out of a motel, surrounded by secrets and dangers and men I might never see free again.