Page 80 of Force At Third

15

Waking up in the recovery room of Mercy West, three people are surrounding me. Dromida O’Donnell, a supermodel slash surgeon with perfect dark skin and legs for days, who operated on me; a seriously hot dark-haired male doctor whose smirk tells me he knows it; and the gorgeous Dr, Chang, who last I saw was poking around inside me. Why? Apparently, being beaten and shot wasn’t enough; karma decided I needed to have my test results confused with a pregnant woman’s.

“How are you feeling, Gwen?” Dromida asks.

“Like I got beat, shot, and held under some frigid, nasty river water by a psychotic pedophile, saved by a major baseball player, had CPR performed on me by a tattooed mountain of a man, and was brought to a hospital where somebody mixed up my test results with another woman’s and then …” I stop and think. “Well, you’ll have to fill in the rest for me.”

They all look at each other, seeming pleased.

“I’m Dr. Effisto, neurology. Dr. O’Donnell called me in for a consult, and I monitored you during your surgery.”

“Is something wrong with my brain?”

“You have a concussion. Rest and try to relax. You’ll be back catching the bad guys within a couple of weeks.”

“Okay?”

“The bullet was removed and was given to a police escort to the station to be used as evidence.”

“Any chance you could tell if it was from a Glock or?—”

“We’d have no way of knowing that information,” Dromida answers.

“The bullet was a 45.” Dr. Effisto leans back against the cupboard and crosses his arms. “Gonna guess that was the psychotic pedophile’s gun?”

“Jesus, Marc,” Dromida sighs

I close my eyes and smile. “Yeah.”

“Aside from all you were put through, you’re in excellent shape, Gwen.”

“Thank you. All of you.” I open my eyes and look at each of them. “I appreciate?—”

“Gwen, we wanted to make sure you know that the blood tests, my exam”—she reaches into her lab coat, pulls out a piece of paper, and hands it to me—“the vaginal ultrasound, all say the same thing—you’re pregnant.”

Words are lost when I look at a black and white flimsy photo that feels so … heavy. I’ve celebrated these moments with Whit and Chloe, peering into the future with curiosity and awe, looking at the little life they’d hold in their hearts and hands for years and years to come.

I hold it against my chest and close my eyes as tears flow hot down my cheek, a surge of emotions, but it’s not the same I felt with them. There is no joy or happiness; instead, there’s fear and trepidation knowing what happens next.

Someone takes my hand and gently squeezes it. “Should I get Whitley?”

“No, God, I don’t want them to know.”

“Leland’s in the waiting room.”

He knows. He knows everything now. He needs to understand that this … this won’t last.

“Just him. No one else needs to know.”

Dr. Effisto walks over and pats my hand. “Dark room, eyes closed, rest your mind and body. My number will be on the discharge papers; call with any questions.”

“Thank you.”

***

When Leland walks in, the relief that crosses his features hurts my heart.

“You’re awake.”

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