I bite back my retort. “Where are you now?” I ask instead.
“The warehouse down Weston,” he replies. “It’s only ten minutes or so from the clinic. It shouldn’t take that long.”
“Fine. I’ll see you soon.”
It takes everything I have to resist my urge to turn back into Esme’s room. To stare at her body again, the way I’ve done for hours and hours since we arrived here. Since I found her haunted and slumping into blackout.
Was that a bump in her belly? I couldn’t be sure.
But the doctor said a baby was in there. He has no reason to lie. I have no reason to doubt him.
Which prompts another question: is it mine?
Four months ago, Esme and I had crossed paths in the bathroom of the Siren. There is a fairly good chance the child she’s carrying is mine.
But just because the timing’s right doe
