The hospital room was too white, too quiet, and smelled too much like the end of something. I lay there, staring at the IV drip, watching the clear liquid slide down the plastic tube and into my vein. My hand was resting protectively over my stomach, hidden beneath the thin hospital blanket.
He didn't know.
The mantra was the only thing keeping my heart from leaping out of my chest. Kylie had lied. Dr. Stern had remained silent.
The "official" story was a hormonal spike, a heavy cycle brought on by the trauma of the last month. It was a flimsy, pathetic excuse, but Luther had bought it. Or at least, he had nodded and squeezed my hand with that terrifying, intense look of his that usually meant he was satisfied.
I felt like I was walking on a tightrope made of glass. Every breath was a
