Abandoned

stumbling blocks I should be aware of? Anyone not on board? Anything at all?”

I fight to keep my gaze from sliding over to AD Jones. The alien in my belly stirs, but not really; I know that’s a fantasy. He or she is still just a bare collection of cells. I consider Alan, both his age and his misgivings.

“No, sir,” I say, smiling as I lie. “I think we’re good to go.”

“Glad to hear it.” He checks his watch and nods to himself. “Good timing, then. I have to run. I’ll let you both know as things develop.” He shakes our hands and heads out the door.

“You’re getting better at lying,” AD Jones says, when he’s gone.

“Lying and equivocation aren’t the same thing,” I retort. “Ask any lawyer.”

“It’s not a criticism. That’s a skill you’ll need to develop where you’re going. In the meantime, we’re all still here, so bring me up to date on this case.”

I tell him everything we know. He interjects a few questions but is largely silent.

“Why do you think he let Heather Hollister walk without giving her a lobotomy?” he asks when I’m finished.

“I don’t know. Maybe she personalized herself to him in some way. Maybe she looks like his mother. I’m not sure.”

“What’s your gut say?”

This is his way. He asks for our instincts, because his own got him where he is today. AD Jones trusts his people.

“Every sense I have of this guy so far tells me that everything he does is deliberate. His actions are driven by reason based on self-preservation, not emotion. Heather Hollister is a piece that doesn’t fit, but only because we don’t know how she fits yet.”

“And the fingerprints?”

“Again, I don’t know. If that’s deliberate, I can’t imagine why. It could be something as simple as him thinking the plastic on the body bags wouldn’t retain a fingerprint.”

He stares off, and I know he’s calculating all the facts I’ve given him. “Okay,” he finally says. “Sounds like you’re on the right track. I agree, property records and the undercover op are the best paths you have at the moment. Keep me briefed.”

“Yes, sir.” I get up to leave. “One other thing, sir?”

“Yes?”

“I need to leave an hour early today,” I say. I look down at my feet, embarrassed. “Why?”

“Doctor’s appointment.”

He leans back in his chair, twirling a pen in his right hand. “Baby stuff?”

“First checkup, yes, sir.”

His eyes pin me for a moment longer, and then he leans back over his desk again and starts working on the paperwork there. “Approved.”

I beat a hasty retreat. I wonder at my discomfort on the way down in the elevator. Why do I care? What difference does it make that I’m going to see an obstetrician about being pregnant versus seeing a general practitioner about something more mundane?

The answer comes: Because it makes me a woman.

Being pregnant makes you a woman more than anything else. You can talk tough like the boys, wear a gun like the boys, even be a boss like the boys, but once your belly starts to show, everyone is reminded: You’re not one of the boys and never will be.

Why does it matter? I ask again, and again the answer comes: because of who we stand against. Our strength, our guns, our organizational might, those are the things that keep the evil men at bay. It’s not shame about being a woman, it’s the maddening question: Would Sands have crept into my house if I’d been a male agent instead of a female one?

In my heart of hearts, I don’t think so.

I touch my belly. It’s a baby, it’s hope, it’s a future life, but what it feels like right now is a bull’s-eye, outlined in neon, carrying a bullhorn and shouting out loud for all the world to hear, This is where I’m weak! This is where I’m weak!

This, it says, is the place where you can hurt me the most. Shoot me here, and you shoot my soul.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The doctor I’m seeing is a serious woman—not serious in that way that makes a person unapproachable, not grave, but in that way that says you have all of her attention and she cares.

Meeting a new doctor, even though I’m not a fan of going to the doctor, is easier than meeting new people in general. When a doctor examines my scarring, it’s usually frank and open, and I can be relatively certain the curiosity is professional. This doctor is no exception. Her name is Sierra Rand.

“Why did your parents name you Sierra?” I ask.

I’m buying time. Now that I’m here, sitting in this office, and she’s sitting there, with her white coat, file folder, and pen, I find that I’m terrified. Seeing a doctor has suddenly made it all too real.

She seems to take it in stride. “My parents were big into hiking and camping. As the story goes, I was conceived in a tent on Mount Whitney, which is part of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.”

“It’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks. They were just getting over being hippies when I was born. I could have been named ‘America’ or ‘Freedom,’ or something like that, so I have no complaints, trust me.” She smiles. “Now, what can I do for you, Ms. Barrett?”

She’s killed the banter, and it leaves me discomfited. No escaping now. “I’m pregnant.”

She doesn’t smile or offer congratulations; she doesn’t frown. Her expression is a PhD study of the noncommittal. “How do you know?”

“The usual. My period stopped a little over two months ago, and my boobs got sore, so I did a home pregnancy test and it came up positive. Followed it up with a blood test to confirm.”

She consults my chart. “On your intake form you said you’ve had a child before?”

“One.”

“And is she healthy?”

“She was.”

She frowns and puts the chart back down on her lap. “Was?”

“She was murdered by the man who did this to my face.”

I see it then, as I’ve seen it before: the look of recognition. My story was splashed in the papers and on television. Instead of going goggle-eyed or, what I hate even worse, searching for the “right thing to say in this situation,” she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Barrett. I didn’t put two and two together.”

“It’s okay. And call me Smoky, Dr. Rand.”

“Smoky.” The smile again, a nice one. “You’re welcome to call me Sierra, but you should probably call me Dr. Rand. Studies have shown that patients trust their physicians most when they stay in costume. They just don’t believe I’m a doctor if I don’t wear the white coat.”

I open my jacket a little and show her my gun. “Similar phenomenon. It doesn’t matter how much I flash my badge; if I’m not carrying, people don’t really believe I’m an agent.”

“I assume you had an obstetrician. Can I ask why you’re not seeing him—or her—about this pregnancy?”

“A him. Dr. Evans. To answer your question—superstition, I guess. The daughter he saw died. I don’t want him having anything to do with this baby.” I look down, a little embarrassed, maybe a little ashamed. “I know that’s unfair, and really I don’t blame him for her death, but …”

“You want a fresh start in every way.”

I look back up, surprised. “That’s right.”

She smiles reassuringly. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Smoky. The first thing we want to reduce in an