Chapter Seventy-Eight

Brooklyn

The van slows as we pull into the station lot, and everything in me tightens at once. I feel Jackson shift beside me, even though he is holding me so close it is like he is afraid I will slip through his fingers. Maybe I am afraid of that, too. 
The doors swing open and cold air rushes inside, and I’m already halfway trying to step down even though my legs feel like they belong to someone else, and the second my foot touches the pavement my knees give out completely, so the whole world tilts and Jackson grabs me fast, both his hands gripping my arms as he keeps me upright because I can’t do it myself right now. My ribs hurt, my head feels too light and too heavy at the same time, and everything around us is chaos with lights flashing, shouting carrying across the parking lot, the slam of car doors mixing with medics running and officers calling for stretchers and water and blankets, and I can’t catch a steady breath because the world feels like it’s vibrating under my skin.
The rescued girls are being helped out of the other vans too, some of them screaming, some crying, some staring blankly through the people guiding them because they’re not even awake inside their own bodies, and the sound of it mixes with the cold air until I feel like everything is too bright, too loud, too much for anybody, and I press into Jackson instinctively because he’s the only solid thing I can find. His arm wraps around me immediately, strong and shaky at the same time, and he keeps me tight against his chest while trying to breathe through whatever pain he’s hiding in his ribs because he refuses to let go.
A medic rushes over and crouches in front of me, and I hear Jackson say, “She needs warmth, water, and evaluation,” his voice rough and breaking around the edges, and then he adds, “She’s five months pregnant,” and even though his voice shakes at the end, he’s still trying to sound calm for me. The medic nods fast and presses a hand to my arm, saying, “You’re safe, sweetheart, but I need you to come inside where it’s warm,” and I nod even though my body feels like it’s floating and sinking at the same time.
Jackson whispers, “I’ve got you,” and he keeps his hand on my back as he helps me walk, and I can feel how he’s trembling even though he’s trying to hide it, and the moment we step inside the station the noise somehow gets even louder because officers are everywhere with phones ringing, doors slamming, paperwork flying, and voices overlapping so fast that it feels like everything inside me starts to spin again. I even hear Teddy screaming somewhere down the hall, the sound ripping straight through my spine, and I press closer to Jackson until he wraps both arms around me again and pulls me against his chest because he feels the way I jolt at the sound of Teddy’s voice.
A detective steps up to us, Creed or Nash, I think, or maybe it’s Enzo, I can’t freaking remember because there’s so much noise and the girls and Grant and Teddy and the warehouse and everything is slamming around inside my head so fast that I can’t keep anything straight, and I feel myself start to spiral until Jackson squeezes my shoulder gently and the pressure pulls me back enough that I can focus on the detective just as he stops in front of us and says, “Brooklyn, we need you to do an ID right away.”
Jackson turns toward him fast, his voice calm, steady, almost too controlled, but I see the way his jaw tightens, and it tells me instantly that he already knows what I’m going to say and that he doesn’t like it at all. The detective, Creed or Nash, lifts his hands a little like he wants to show he’s not trying to push too hard, and he says, “We need the confirmation while his adrenaline’s still high and before he gets processed any further.”
Jackson steps slightly in front of me, not blocking me fully, just enough that he can feel any movement from the hall behind him, and he asks, “Do we have to do this right now,” but he already knows the answer and so do I, because the longer I wait the worse the panic builds and I can feel it gathering in my chest like something that’s going to crack me open from the inside if I sit with it too long.
I swallow hard, and I tell the detective, “I want to do it now,” even though my voice shakes and my stomach twists, and my legs feel weak. Jackson turns toward me fast, eyes soft and torn, but he doesn’t argue; he just steps closer, takes my hand, and says quietly, “I’m right here.” I nod, even though nodding makes my head spin, and I hold his hand tighter because I need it.
They walk us toward the ID room, and each step feels heavier than the last, and by the time we stop in front of the one-way glass, my whole body is buzzing, like every nerve is waiting for something awful. Jackson squeezes my hand again, whispering, “We can stop,” but I shake my head because I know stopping will only make it worse.
The detective steps into the booth on the other side to bring Grant forward, and the moment the door opens, I feel it, not visually, not from sight, but from the way the air changes, like something cold slithers under the doorframe and crawls up the back of my spine. I know he’s in the room before I see him, I can almost feel him in my bones the way I used to feel him walking down the hallway of my childhood home before he opened my bedroom door when I was eleven, and my breath stutters as the panic crawls higher.
Then he steps into view.
Grant Holloway.
His face is half scarred exactly like it was earlier tonight, the melted-looking skin twisting across one side until he barely looks human on that half, the unscarred half still holding those same dead, cold eyes I saw when I woke up in that cabin one month ago with his hands already on my bare skin, and everything inside me starts shaking so hard it feels like my bones are rattling.
He stands there in the concrete room staring straight at the glass, even though he can’t see through it because it’s one-way, but that doesn’t stop him from tilting his head slowly like he can smell me or feel me or sense me through the wall. His lips curl into a slow twisted smile that makes my blood freeze, and then he says it, voice low and satisfied like he’s savoring every word.
“Little bird, you can’t hide from me, not now, not ever, and you damn well know you were always meant to come back to me.”
Every muscle in my body goes cold and numb. My heartbeat slams so hard I feel like my ribs shake with it, and my vision blurs as tears gather even though I don’t want them to fall. Jackson grips my hand so tight that I feel the pressure in my bones, and his breath stumbles hard, and I hear him whisper, “Baby, I’m right here,” and the sound of his voice is the only thing keeping me from collapsing.
The detective watching beside us nods once and says quietly, “Thank you, Brooklyn, that’s all we need,” but everything in me is still shaking because hearing Grant say those words through the speaker feels like hands reaching out of the past and grabbing all the parts of me I’ve been trying to put back together.
We’re led out of the ID room and down the hallway, and I can feel something loosening in my body and tightening at the same time, like the fear is leaving and arriving in the same breath, and then it happens. Something shifts low in my belly, deep and sudden and strong enough that it forces a small gasp out of me as I grab my stomach and bend slightly because it feels like something is wrong.
Jackson freezes. “Something’s wrong with the baby,” he says instantly, panic sharp in his voice.
I can’t even answer because the feeling hits again, this strange tightening flutter that isn’t pain exactly but feels like it might become pain at any second, and my breath catches as the medic hurries over.
She presses a warm hand to my stomach and asks me gently where it hurts and how far along I am, and before I can answer, Jackson blurts, “Five months,” and I can hear how desperate he sounds even though he’s trying so hard not to fall apart.
I point to the spot where I felt it, my hand shaking so badly that I can barely place it, and the medic takes the stethoscope from around her neck and presses the cold metal end against my skin.
The moment she touches me, I feel it again, a strong feeling that has me jerking back with a broken sound in my throat because it has to be something terrible, something ripping or shifting or giving out.
The medic freezes.
I start to spiral hard, thinking the op was too much and I pushed too far and now the baby’s hurt and I’m going to lose it and I'm going to lose Jackson and I can’t do this and it’s all my fault because I shouldn’t have gone back in there, I shouldn’t have walked into that warehouse, and I shouldn’t have let myself face Grant at all because my whole body feels like it’s shutting down.
Then the medic smiles.
She lifts the stethoscope from my skin and says softly, “That’s not something wrong,” and her eyes warm so gently that I stop shaking just enough to hear her, and she adds with a small, happy laugh, “That’s the baby kicking.”
I stare at her because I can’t process it, and she nods again, reassuring and warm. “Yes, sweetheart, it’s just his or her way of saying hello.”
My breath catches in my throat, and for the first time since we left that warehouse, something warm swells in my chest instead of fear, and I press my hand to the spot where the baby kicked, waiting, hoping, begging silently.
Then I feel it.
A tiny push against my palm.
I let out a choked, shocked laugh and grab Jackson’s wrist with my free hand, dragging his hand to my stomach. “There,” I whisper, my voice breaking apart with relief, “right there, Jackson, feel it.”
His hand settles over mine, warm and trembling, and we both wait, our breath held, our hearts pounding.
And then the baby kicks again, right against his palm.
Jackson’s whole face crumples, his breath shattering in a soft broken sound as he bends his forehead to mine and whispers, “Baby, that’s our kid,” and his voice shakes in a way I’ve never heard before.
Everything around us fades, every voice, every fluorescent light, every echo of the nightmare we just crawled out of, and all that’s left is Jackson’s hand on my stomach, my hand over his, and the tiny, undeniable thump of a life growing inside me.