I stared at the message for a long time before I did anything.
Four words. We need to talk. The universal precursor to nothing good. But it was the last three that made my blood cold, because no one outside a very small circle knew about the pregnancy. We had told Callum. Mrs. Aldren had likely worked it out. My father did not know yet. The doctor knew.
And the person who had sent this message, with a London number I had never seen, somehow knew.
I didn’t tell Damien.
I examined this decision as I lay in the dark and I was honest with myself about it. Part of my reasoning was the same reasoning I had used with the anonymous text before San Francisco, which was that I needed to understand the information before I could present it. But another part, the part I was less comfortable with,
