Chapter Twenty-One
Dr. Matheson and a specialist Adalia recognized from the ICU were seated in front of a large desk, facing her and Trent. Matheson’s skin was pallid, blotched in places like moldy bread, but the specialist, Dr. Charles, was ruddy-cheeked and young.
Both looked like a relative had died.
Another bad sign. Adalia gripped her belly to ease the rumbling of nerves. It didn’t help at all, not even a little bit.
“What’s going on? Just spit it out,” Adalia groaned, and Trent grasped the arm of her chair, knuckles turning white. He was as scared as she was, desperate to find out what’d happened. She could tell from the paleness around his lips.
“We didn’t want to alarm you,” Matheson said.
“You’ve done a s**t job at that,” Trent replied. They’d arrived at the hospital and ask
