Page 113 of The Wrong Monster

I can’t stop staring at him. He’s right. I do remember that, my gynecologist rattling off statistics in a bored voice as she prepped the implant, but still. A part of me thought that this doesn’t actually happen. I knew it could fail. I just never imagined being the exception.

“She…did, yeah. I’m just surprised.”

And then my lawyer brain kicks in; I can’t help it. I’ve been in Lake Placid for over a month, and the only man I’ve so much as looked at is…

Vasily.

Although I’ve done a lot more than look.

“Can you tell me how far along I am?”

“Not from this test.” Dr. Trymulack looks at me over his glasses. “You’ll need an ultrasound, and we don’t have that equipment here.”

He gives me the names of two obstetricians in the area, both apparently accepting new patients. He writes down the information on a small pad of paper, rips the top piece off, and holds it out.

“With the implant still in place, we need to find out where the pregnancy is. I’ll have the nurse arrange an appointment for tomorrow before you leave. If you continue the pregnancy, the implant needs to come out. And obviously, no drinking. No smoking, and cut down on caffeine.”

I nod automatically as he explains which symptoms mean I should seek urgent help, including severe abdominal pain, fainting, or heavy bleeding. Then he moves on to bloodwork, an STI test, establishing care. I try to hold on to all of it.

“Any questions?”

I have approximately ten thousand, but it’s obvious that an urgent care isn’t the right place for them.

“Not right now.”

He stands. “Then congratulations, I suppose.”

And he’s gone.

I stare at the paper in my hand, not really reading the two names and numbers on it.

Pregnant. I’m pregnant, and I should be panicking.

Instead, my mind goes back to calculating. I have a frighteningly accurate memory for dates. Court appearances. Filing deadlines. Client meetings. Birthdays I wish I could forget.

And sex.

Unfortunately, I remember every single time Vasily put his hands on me and I let him, all too willingly. And the first time was roughly thirty-four days ago.

My fingers tighten around my phone as I push myself off the exam table and gather my purse and jacket. The medical assistant nods when I pass her in the hallway, and the receptionist hands me the details of tomorrow’s appointment in a folded sheet of paper.

In the waiting room, not ready to take this into the real world yet, I pull up the calendar already saved on my phone. No searches. Just dates, and the things I remember too well.

Then I start doing the math.

My pulse quickens. If the pregnancy is real, and apparently it is, then there are only a handful of possibilities.

And every single one of them leads back to him, undeniably.

I close my eyes.

Of all the things I expected to happen when I came to Lake Placid, this wasn’t even remotely on the list.

I sit down in one of the hard plastic chairs, still staring at the calendar. The receptionist looks up again, probably trying to figure out why I’m still here.

But as I stare at the dates on my screen, one thought keeps pushing through every calculation: I’m carrying Vasily’s baby.

And for the first time since I walked through that urgent-care door, logic isn’t enough to keep my hands from trembling.