I stared at the cold date printed on the report. My nails dug into my palm hard enough to draw blood, but I felt nothing.
The date of the procedure was right there in black and white: the day after my daughter died.
Mabel looked me up and down, savoring my ashen face, then placed the second report directly into my hands. She lowered her gaze and stroked her stomach.
"I'm three months pregnant. It's Guy's."
In that moment, it felt like someone was slowly siphoning every last molecule of air from my lungs.
Three months ago was when my daughter's checkup results had come back wrong. The doctor said it was minor, but she'd need surgery to fix it completely.
That night, I'd cried in Guy's arms. I hadn't seen the flash of satisfaction in his eyes.
"Leave everything to me."
His touch had been so gentle when he comforted me that night.
Now I understood. His "everything" had never included me or my child.
Mabel's warm, venomous breath against my ear dragged me back. She leaned in close, whispering with quiet triumph.