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“Really? You think there’s something that could help?”
He hums softly. “Of course. An anxiety medication. Maybe a sleep aid.”
“That would be… amazing. I sort of accepted that this would be my life now. I guess I should have expected you’d have an answer. You’ve helped me with everything else so far.”
He gives me a tight smile and turns back to his bag.
The silence stretches out between us. My heart monitor beeps along in the background, keeping the time as Dr. Jenkins roots around in his bag. When he turns back to me, his hands are empty. He flexes them at his side like he isn’t sure what to do.
“Are you going to check the babies?” I ask.
He blinks and turns to me. Our eyes meet for just a second before he looks away again. It’s the first time he’s looked at me since he walked in the room.
“Sure. Yes,” he says like the idea just occurred to him. He reaches for the heart rate doppler. “We can do that.”
I pull my blanket over my waist before I lift my hospital gown. Dr. Jenkins presses the doppler to my stomach, moving mechanically through our routine. When he finds a heartbeat, his face creases.
“Sounds good,” he mumbles.
I can hear the heartbeat. It sounds exactly like what I’ve come to expect. It sounds healthy. But doubt churns in my gut.
Something is wrong.
“My blood pressure was okay, too?” I ask.
“Healthy. Perfect.”
I frown. “It wasn’t high? And the babies’ heartbeats sound okay?”
“All good,” he mutters. “No problem at all.”
“I hear you, but you don’t look like everything is okay.” I lean forward and lay a hand over his wrist. “If me and my babies are okay… are you okay? Is your family alright?”
Dr. Jenkins jerks away from my hand like I just burned him. “Fine. My family is okay. Everything is fine, Luna. I’m just tired.”
He’s allowed to be tired. Everyone is allowed to have a bad day.
But this is more than that. I know it.
Yakov isn’t here.
Dr. Jenkins is acting strange.
Something is wrong.
I hear Yakov’s voice in my head like he’s whispering in my ear. Get out. Now. I’ve come to trust my intuition, but this doesn’t make any sense. I spent weeks in a safehouse with Dr. Jenkins. He has been coming to check on me two or three times per day for so long now. If he wanted to hurt me, he’s had more than enough opportunities.
Dr. Jenkins goes to his bag again, rooting around inside.
I sit up and lean forward as far as my belly will allow. And I see that Dr. Jenkins isn’t looking in the bag for anything—he’s hiding his phone from me, tapping out a message.
Something is wrong.
The beeping from my heart rate monitor picks up. If Dr. Jenkins notices, he doesn’t say anything. He’s too focused on his phone.
Who is he texting? I don’t want to stick around to find out.
Slowly, I slide my feet to the edge of the bed and grab my IV pole. I stand up on shaky legs.
