Page 103 of Death is Familiar

Scanning the sheet, the ball of tension in my chest expanded until it reached my spine.

There, near the bottom of the page, in indelible ink, it said:

Delilah James: Pregnant.

No.

Shards of ice shot through my veins, sluiced through my skin. Blue-black panic consumed me.

I thought I had done enough. Drank enough. Hell, my one saving grace in this mess was that the FBI had no idea. Because, somehow, I’d been foolish enough to believe I deceived an institution that thrived on uncovering the truth.

No.

Concern clawed at my throat. Coated my tongue.

None of my training prepared me for this. This wasn’t a situation I could fight or logic my way out of. To confront my situation with the fucking Assistant fucking Director of the fucking FBI had not been on my bingo card for today.

And there it was—the presence of my passenger—on fucking paper. Catalogued and recorded, as permanent as my prison record.

No. No. No.

My vision shook, blurred. My lips, numb.

At least no one knew my passenger was Jack’s. Unless… oh god, did Jack already know? Did Rochan share this with them?

No. No, she couldn’t have. Rochan’s discovery had been recent. The agents had treated me the same as they always had.

But then again, Jack was remarkably good at ensuring things seemed business as usual in front of the team.

Breathe. Breathe. Just in. Then out.

Swallowing air in small choking snippets, I knew I was less than subtle. But with the tightness in my chest, breathing seemed as reasonable as free-soloing the Washington Monument.

For god’s sake, Delilah, you’ve spent your whole life breathing. It shouldn’t be this hard.

But it was, and I needed to get it together.

“—Ms. James, I asked if you are alright.” Rochan’s words cracked through my frozen shell.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times, before I realized Rochan was seated in the chair next to me, and not on the opposite side of her desk.

“Who knows about this?” My voice was surprisingly level, deep.

Rochan produced a tissue from the box on her desk and handed it to me. I wasn’t going to cry—I refused to cry over this—so I folded it and placed in my lap. If the corners were folded just so, the square perfect and unused, maybe Rochan would believe I had my shit together. “Me. The people who re-did your lab work.”

Oh. Okay. That was… that was good. But that didn’t mean it was going to stay that way. “Is there a process? Does this mean Jack and Todd…”

“Agents Hess and Galt remain uninformed. I don’t know all the goings on, but this is not my news to share.” There was a softness to Rochan I didn’t expect, and seeing as I was wracking every nerve in my body to behave, it was greatly appreciated. “Despite the status on this paper, you haven’t done anything that conflicts with your agreement, am I heard?”

No, I must have heard wrong. Because Jack and I sleeping together crossed every. Single. Line.

The gentle warmth of hope skated across my skin. Which meant she didn’t know Jack was the father. Hadn’t even considered it. Perhaps Jack’s perceived inability to have children was more widespread than I thought.

“Delilah.” She used my name. My first name. “Am I heard?”

My heart stuttered. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You don’t seem to believe me.”