She collapsed to her knees outside the operating room, desperate for a shoulder to lean on for the first time in her life.
By the time she realized what she was doing, the call to Jasper had already gone through.
A few rings, then a woman's voice picked up. "Who is this?"
Behind the voice: the rush of a shower running.
Hilda opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
She curled in on herself, inch by inch, until she was doubled over, making a sound somewhere between laughing and sobbing, a raw, airless rasp that could have been either.
The woman on the other end let out a scoff and hung up.
Just before Hilda blacked out, a searing cramp tore through her lower abdomen. Then she felt warmth, thick and steady, spreading down her inner thighs.
When she opened her eyes again, a doctor was telling her she had lost her first child.
After leaving the funeral home, Hilda went straight home.
She had been shattered, one blow after another. Her body, still wrecked from the miscarriage, hadn't even begun to heal. She should have been resting.
But she couldn't wait another second. Everything connected to Jasper was an invisible hand around her throat, squeezing the air out of her lungs.
She needed to get out. Now.