Page 70 of Irreversible

“Not yet, but people have a habit of dying when Ash Crown shows his face, and I don’t want him here. He’s got dubious connections, and he’s in our jurisdiction now; we have the right to keep eyes on him.”

“And I’m officially your eyes?”

“Unofficially. For now.” He smirks. “Anyway.” He taps the desk twice and heads for the door. “I want to see you get back on track. Maybe start by seeing if you can get an ID on her.” He taps on the brunette’s face. “Fish for information. Discreetly, of course.”

“Of course.” My eyes drift to the phone as it lights up with a text.

Livingston

Leaving now.

My lungs deflate with relief as a new wave of hope straightens my spine. Standing, I look through my open doorway and into the control room. Livingston catches my eye, keys in hand, and I hold up a finger. He nods.

“If you can juggle that along with the rest of your responsibilities,” Chief says on his way out, “I’ll look the other way while you keep hunting for Porter.”

The mention of his name throws me back to the dream, the memory of his voice echoing.“Have you forgotten about me already, Tanner?”

Hell no.

Grabbing my phone, I follow the Chief to the door, reminding myself of my purpose. The system—our system—failed one of our own. Sara might not have been my blood, but she felt like it, and I’ll be damned if I lose anyone else.

Not again.

What would Isaac do if our positions were switched? He’d fucking find me, that’s what he’d do. So, while I sit in the passenger seat on the way to grill a spoiled billionaire's son on a hunch that he might lead to the whereabouts of my friend, I vow to do the same.

No matter what it takes.

16

Ipress a hand to my bloated belly as I nibble an apple slice. A faint swirl of nausea has me uninterested in the fruit, but I’ve hardly eaten much since Nurse Ratched jabbed me with a trigger shot full of egg stimulants thirty-plus hours ago. I’ve been counting down the days since my first injection, crossing numbers off on my internal retrieval calendar. Fourteen days. A slew of ultrasound check-ups have been sprinkled in over the past two weeks, where I’m subdued with laughing gas and half-carried to a sterile room for monitoring.

What must be a rewarding, life-fulfilling experience for expectant mothers and egg donors across the world has become a nightmare for me. Cold, unforgiving, and cruel. I feel assaulted. Exploited.

Victimized.

And those babies born from my non-consent will have no knowledge of the woman who will likely be giving her life for them.

Sadness leaks in as I collapse backward onto the mattress, shoving my plate of uneaten lunch aside. Moaning with discomfort, I glance down at my stomach—distended, stretched, and heavy. It feels like I’m carrying an iron basketball.

Isaac’s plate clinks against the tile beside me as I massage my swollen belly, imagining it full of Jasper’s child. How different that would be. How tragic, knowing it will never come to pass.

What would our baby look like? Fair-skinned, with inky tufts of soft hair?

Hazel eyes, or blue?

“Find anything resourceful yet?”

My eyes lift to the ceiling as I swallow back a wave of queasiness. “Not yet. I’m sure they wouldn’t have made it that easy for me.”

“There has to be something.”

“I’ve been saying that for over two years. It’s useless.” Tears blur my vision, and for a moment, the ceiling morphs into a pillowy white sky. Birds tweet and sing from the farthest corner of my mind. Sunlight drapes golden stripes across my face. “Do you think my time is almost up?”

Considering Isaac seems to be the glass-half-empty type, I don’t think I want his answer.

Or maybe I do.

After all, hope has gotten me nowhere.

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