Page 54 of Malevolent Secrets

I grip my purse tightly, feeling its edges cut into my palm, a small anchor in the sea of anxiety swirling inside me.

“Hello. I had some tests done a few days ago,I just got a call that the test results are ready and I was directed up here for an appointment with Dr. Anna Hendricks,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I hand her the card which has a scribbled note from the first doctor who saw me.

She types quickly on her keyboard, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. “Name?”

“Daniella Roberto.”

She nods, clicking away. “All right, Daniella. You’re all set. Please have a seat, and we’ll call you shortly.”

I find a seat in the waiting area, the plastic chair feeling too firm against my back. Around me, a few other women—some with nervous glances, others with expectant smiles—flip through magazines or fidget with their phones. I try to ignore their presence, focusing instead on the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

I sit next to a woman in her late thirties, her belly visibly round and cradled by a loose, colorful maternity dress. She catches my eye and offers a friendly smile. “First time?”

“What?”

“Is it your first time having a baby?” she asks again, her kind smile not going away.

“Oh, no. I’m not pregnant.”

“Oh, lucky you then. I mean, my kids are a blessing and all, but I will kill to have my pre-children body back for just one day.”

I nod, forcing a smile in return. “Yeah.”

“It can be nerve-wracking,” she says, her eyes kind. “I’m on my third child and I still get anxious with every check-up.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” I reply, wanting this conversation to end.

As the minutes pass, I try to calm my racing heart. The waiting area is filled with the hum of hushed conversations and the occasional rustling of magazines. A nurse finally comes to fetch me, her face a mask of practiced professionalism.

“Daniella Roberto?” she calls.

I stand up with a mixture of relief and trepidation. The nurse who ushers me into the examination room is a kindly woman in her fifties, with a warm, reassuring smile.

She leads me down a corridor to an exam room. The walls are painted a calming pastel green, though the color does little to ease my nerves. The room is still too bright, with educational posters about pregnancy and women’s health hanging on the walls.

“Please have a seat on the table,” the nurse instructs, gesturing to the examination table covered in crinkly paper.

I sit, the paper rustling beneath me. The nurse takes my vitals and leaves with a reassuring nod. Dr. Anna Hendricks enters, her light blue scrubs a stark contrast to the clinical whiteness of the room. Her stethoscope hangs around her neck like a silent promise of expertise.

“Hello, Daniella. How are you today?” she asks, her voice warm and professional.

“I’m okay,” I say, trying to maintain composure.

Dr. Hendricks starts discussing the results of my tests, her words clinical but clear. When she finally says, “You’re pregnant,” time stops. The room seems to tilt. For a second, I wonder if maybe I should’ve been sent to the ENT instead, because my hearing seems to be acting up.

“What did you just say?” I ask. My voice is a whisper, deceptively soft.

“You’re pregnant, Daniella. I know this is probably a shock for you, but you have lots of options if you want to talk about them.” Her voice is so soft and placating that I want to scream at her to shut up because I’m not a child.

“Yes, of course. But I can’t be pregnant, I’m not pregnant. My periods, I’ve been getting my period.”

“Well, that’s because you’re probably only about three weeks along.”

If time stopped before, now it seems to move at warp fucking speed.

Three weeks pregnant. Three weeks pregnant.

Jeremy has been dead for more than two months. Three weeks pregnant.

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