DeMaris does a small, sympathetic click of his tongue, as if he can hear me getting tempted. “Now, there is one small unfortunate wrinkle.” He almost sounds genuinely regretful. “The pregnancy, I fear, isn’t going to make it. These things happen, especially under the kind of stress incarceration imposes on a woman in her first trimester. There’ll be some bleeding, a trip to the infirmary, and a visit from the warden to pass along his condolences. Some women find that comforting.”
I keep myself plastered to the cinderblock wall behind me, because if I don’t, I’m going to slide down the wall like wet paint. The maroon coverlet looks suddenly nauseating, the color of old blood.
“Could you repeat that bit, please?”
DeMaris tilts his head to the side. “I know it’s a lot, dear. I’m just outli
