Page 114 of Endgame

I cleared my throat to try to hum, at least, and failed.

I can’t get over my anxiety.

Can’t.

I’d run the hell out of here, except Cormac blocks the exit.

I’m a prisoner in this room. Plagued by my worst nightmares.

The Clarkes’ private pediatrician said I couldn’t have been more than a month old when they found me on their doorstep.

The oldest baby here is twenty-three days old.

Those heartless people took me in when I looked like that. Small, fragile, and helpless.

I bet they hated me back then just as much.

I bet my mom loved me. She had to.

Her actions showed just how much she did. Breaking through my adoptive parents’ gates and leaving me with a couple who had the means to give me a better life—that’s love.

She couldn’t know that the manicured lawns and gorgeous home were hiding monsters behind them.

She did what she thought was best.

I wish she were here. I wish I wouldn’t struggle to breathe.

“There, why don’t you hold him?” Affection shines in Gina’s eyes. I’m grateful she hasn’t mentioned his name to me. I begged for her to take it slow, and she’s listening. “I promise he won’t bite.”

“No.” I laugh, a watery and weird sound even to my ears. “He won’t. I’ll hold him, I promise. Next time.”

A man clears his throat behind me.

Cormac.

Screw him and his orders.

“We’ll go slow,” Gina urges gently, hugging the baby boy to her pink scrubs. Hope and pleading filter into her voice. She knows neither of us has a choice in the matter. “Five minutes, and I’ll take him back from you. As simple as that.”

When I first walked in here, I refused to get too close to the babies. The emotional toll was overwhelming. Getting attached was going to destroy me altogether.

However, I must admit they are adorable. And, as I mentioned, it’s not as if I have a choice.

I muster the strength to open my arms and scoot closer to her. My breath shudders. The lump in my throat has grown to the size of a football.

I should send a prayer to the heavens that Everett chokes on his lunch later today.

I don’t.

Resenting him is impossible. He’s wounded and spiteful. A warm piece of my heart worries that whatever might’ve happened to him was a tragedy.

That if our suffering were to be compared, he’d win this miserable contest.

That doesn’t make my anxiety any less painful. The tears in my eyes are ever-present.

I have to do this.

Have to watch the baby boy since, any second now, Gina will place the adorable little thing in my arms.