I jump out of the Acura and race for the front steps of the CARE Center. A sign hangs above the door, spelling out the abbreviation: Compassionate Abortion & Reproductive Education. I barely note it before looking at my watch to ensure I’m not late, that I still have time. And I do. It’s 1:26. Four minutes. That’s all.
I’m breathless as I fling the door open and bang inside. The doorknob slams into the wall. There’s an office on the opposite side of the room with a long sheet of what looks like either laminated or polycarbonate glass and a steel door stationed next to it. Behind the glass is another receptionist. She’s much younger than the woman at the hospital. Her blue-tinged hair is shaved on one side, revealing an ear studded in silver earrings and her eyes are rimmed in dark eyeliner. They’re wide with worry as she takes me in, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, probably wondering if I’m a psychopath seconds away from lighting up the place.
“Sorry,” I say, raising my hands. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just in a hurry.”
The woman visibly relaxes and leans forward to speak through a hole in the glass. “Yeah, I’ll say. What do you need?”
The way she says it, the words rushed, her voiceclipped—What do you need?—tells me she’s already itching for me to leave. I need to tread lightly here. The last thing I want is for her to press some hidden panic button beneath the counter. I slide my hands into my pockets and edge forward slowly in a way I hope puts her at ease. “Has anyone left a manila envelope with you by chance?”
She gives me aseriously, dude?quirk of her eyebrow.
“A big guy maybe, with blue eyes? If he did, it would have been for me.”
The woman’s eyebrow rises higher.
Great, Grant. Way to calm her down.I cringe. I’m making it worse, talking about a big guy coming into an abortion clinic, right after banging inside like a maniac myself. But it’s literally the only description I have. And it could be Gunn delivering the packages or Holston, or a dozen other people I have no chance of identifying.
“We don’t exactly hand out descriptions,” the woman finally says. “You do know where you are, right?”
Her question sits in the pit of my stomach like a stone. I know exactly where I am. I’ve been here before—a long time ago. The place has changed substantially. There are the new security cameras and safety features along with a fresh coat of paint and updated trim, but that doesn’t stop me from instantly smelling the sharp antiseptic scent permeating the place. It doesn’t change the weight of the air, so oppressive and thick that it feels like I’ll suffocate if I don’t get outside in the next few minutes. And it doesn’t stop the specks of black from whirling through my vision as I speak because it’s a place I swore I’d never visit again.
“Yeah, I do,” I say. “I know this all must seem a little weird, but it’s for a work scavenger-hunt thing. This guy would have left something for me in here.” The explanation is beyond ridiculous but it’s the only lie I can muster at the moment that makes even a sliver of sense.
The woman squints at me. “It’s more than a little weird, guy. It’s weird as fuck. But no one’s left anything for you.” She crossesher arms and just like that, the conversation is over. I glance at the clock on the wall behind her. It’s 1:32: two minutes past the deadline and I’m completely screwed.
The room tilts and whirls.
“Hey, are you okay?” the woman asks. “You don’t look so good.”
“I don’t …” Saliva fills my mouth. My stomach churns. I take a lurching step sideways and barely manage to collapse into a chair before I fall. I don’t even hear the receptionist as she exits the office, don’t recognize she’s crouching in front of me until she presses a bottle of water in my hand. “Here, drink this. I’m going to get a doctor.”
I take the bottle and manage to uncap it. Water spills down my throat as my gaze settles on a framed poster on the opposite wall. It’s a picture of a woman in a white dress standing on a hill overlooking a rolling forest. The wordsHope Lives Hereare stenciled over her head in a soft blue font. The last thing I feel right now is hope.
Heat stings my eyes.
God, I’m so sorry,I whisper, thinking of Avery, of my baby.I failed you both.
Bzzz bzzz bzzz.
I cock my head. There’s a quiet buzz coming from …where?
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and scramble out of my seat, follow the noise toward a side table on the opposite side of the room. The sound is muffled, hidden somewhere, but it’s there, growing louder: A phone.
I yank open the drawer and find a pen and some birth control pamphlets inside. Nothing else.
Where is it coming from?
My eyes light on the plant resting on top of the table. A fern. Maybe it’s buried in the pot? I’m about to dig into it when the buzzing stops.
No, no, no, no, no.
And then starts again, originating from somewherelower. I drop to my knees and scan the carpet. Nothing. My gaze ticks higher—and there it is, duct taped to the underside of the table. It takes me a single second to rip it free, hit the green call accept button, and stand.
“Hello,” I gasp.
“Cutting it a little close, don’t you think?” The words drip through the speaker in a disguised slur, menacing and gruff.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
