Chapter 8: The Doctor's Waiting Room
The sterile air of the penthouse still clung to them two days later, a silent third presence in the elevator down to the garage. Nevaieh had made the appointment with a single, clipped phone call. Ana didn’t ask questions. The doctor’s name was Ruiz. The clinic was in Lincoln Park, discreet, with a unlisted main entrance and a security keypad that beeped softly as Nevaieh typed in a six-digit code.
The lobby was too quiet. Sleek gray chairs, abstract art, a fish tank bubbling with silent, neon-colored tetras. It smelled like lemongrass cleaner overlaid on something sharper, chemical. The receptionist, a young woman with a perfect blond bob, smiled a practiced, empty smile. Her eyes flickered to Nevaieh, then away, recognizing something that demanded deference without questions.
“Anaijiah,” the woman said, handing over a clipboard. The top sheet had Nevaieh’s name already printed in the emergency contact field. It was circled.
Ana took the clipboard to a chair in the corner. Nevaieh didn’t sit. She stood by the fish tank, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of a charcoal-black bomber jacket, watching the door, watching the hallway, watching everything but Ana. The tension in her shoulders was a live wire.
Ana filled out the forms. Medical history. Allergies. Last menstrual period. Each question felt invasive. She paused at ‘Father’s Information.’ She left it blank. The pen scratched loudly in the hush.
A nurse in purple scrubs appeared at an inner door. “Anaijiah?”
Ana stood, her stomach a knot of cold anticipation. Before she could take a step, Nevaieh was there. Her movement was fluid, immediate, cutting off the nurse’s path to Ana. Her hand came to rest, light but deliberate, on the small of Ana’s back. A claim. A guide.
“I’m coming with her,” Nevaieh said. Her voice left no room for protocol.
The nurse blinked, glanced at the chart, then nodded quickly. “Right this way.”
The exam room was colder. Harsh fluorescent light gleamed off stainless steel stirrups and a rolling stool. A large monitor sat dark on a cart. Ana’s skin prickled. She’d been here before, alone, in Miami. The memory was a sour taste at the back of her throat.
“Hop up on the table, sweetie. The doctor will be right in,” the nurse said, her cheer brittle. She left, closing the door with a soft click.
Ana hoisted herself onto the crinkling paper sheet. The sound was obscenely loud. Nevaieh stayed by the door, her back against it, arms crossed. She looked like a sentinel in a warzone.
“You can relax, you know,” Ana said, trying to muster her old smirk. “The biggest threat in here is probably my blood pressure.”
Nevaieh’s eyes scanned the room—the cabinets, the biohazard bin, the ceiling tiles. “You never know.”
“I do know. This is a fancy clinic for rich people who want secrets kept. Your kind of place.”
“Our kind of place now,” Nevaieh corrected, her gaze finally landing on Ana. It was intense, searching. “You nervous?”
“Why would I be nervous? It’s just a parasitic life form reveal party.” Ana’s laugh sounded thin even to her. She rubbed her palms on her thighs, the denim rough under her fingers.
Nevaieh pushed off the door. She walked to the side of the table, not touching, just standing close. The scent of her—sandlewood and something metallic, gun oil maybe—cut through the antiseptic. It was familiar. Grounding. “Whatever happens in here,” she said, her voice low, “we walk out together. That’s the deal.”
Before Ana could answer, the door opened. Dr. Ruiz was a compact woman in her fifties with shrewd, kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She shook Ana’s hand, then Nevaieh’s, her grip firm.
“Alright, let’s see how this little one is doing,” she said, her tone warm but professional. She helped Ana lie back, the paper crinkling in protest. “Just gonna squeeze some gel on here. It’ll be cold.”
The shock of it made Ana gasp. Nevaieh’s hand twitched at her side.
Dr. Ruiz picked up the transducer, a smooth, wand-like device. “A little pressure now.”
Ana stared at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. She felt the cool, firm press on her lower belly, the probing shift. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. This was the moment. The confirmation. The point of no return that she’d already passed months ago, but now, here, it became real for a witness.
The machine beeped. The dark screen flickered to life, a swirl of grainy black and white static.
Then, a rhythmic, rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh filled the room.
A heartbeat. Not a trace, not a suggestion. A powerful, locomotive sound. Strong. Fast. Relentless.
Nevaieh made a sound like the air had been punched from her lungs. Her hand shot out, gripping the raised edge of the exam table. Her knuckles bleached white against her skin. She was staring at the screen, her mouth slightly open, her entire body rigid.
Dr. Ruiz smiled, moving the wand. “And there we are. Perfect heart rate. Nice and strong.”
On the monitor, the chaos resolved. A curved, ghostly shape. A head. A spine, clear as a pearl string. Tiny nubs that were arms, legs. A flickering, frantic light in the center of the chest, keeping time with the sonic whoosh.
Ana’s vision blurred. She reached out blindly, her hand fumbling in the air between them.
Nevaieh’s grip left the table. Her fingers, cold and trembling, found Ana’s. They laced together, tight, anchoring. Nevaieh didn’t look away from the screen. She leaned in closer, her curls brushing Ana’s shoulder.
“That’s…” Nevaieh’s voice was shattered glass, barely audible over the heartbeat. “That’s it? That’s…”
“That’s Bean,” Ana whispered, a tear breaking loose and tracking hot into her hairline.
Nevaieh’s grip tightened. Her other hand came up, hesitant, and hovered near the screen. Her fingertip almost touched the flickering light of the heart. “Hey,” she breathed, the word so private it was almost a thought.
The technician pointed, measuring, clicking the keyboard. “Everything looks textbook. Growth is right on target for thirteen weeks. See this? That’s a perfect little profile.”
They watched in silence, the whooshing heartbeat a soundtrack to the seismic shift in the room. The cold, calculating businesswoman was gone. In her place was a raw, stunned woman seeing a ghost made flesh, a future etched in sonogram static. A single tear escaped the corner of Nevaieh’s eye. She didn’t brush it away. It just fell.
Dr. Ruiz finished, wiping the gel from Ana’s stomach with a warm cloth. She printed images, the machine whirring. “Any questions?”
Ana shook her head, speechless. Nevaieh just stared at the now-dark screen, as if she could still see the shape burned into her retinas.
In the lobby, the receptionist’s smile seemed even more remote. She handed Nevaieh a sleek black folder with copies of the images. Nevaieh took it as if it were made of crystal.
The city air outside was a slap of humidity and exhaust after the clinic’s tomb-like chill. Nevaieh stopped on the sidewalk, under the flickering neon of a bar sign. She opened the folder, looked at the top image—the clearest one, the profile. Her thumb smoothed over the glossy paper.
Ana watched her, the protective shell around her own heart cracking wider. “You good?”
Nevaieh looked up. The streetlight caught the wet tracks still on her cheeks. She looked young. Terrified. Determined. “We need a bigger place,” she said, her voice rough but steadying. “The penthouse… it’s a vault. A kid can’t… Bean can’t grow up in a vault.”
Ana blinked. Of all the things she’d expected—silence, a retreat back into business, more gruff logistics—this wasn’t it. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I own a brownstone in Wicker Park. Three floors. A yard in the back. Fenced.” Nevaieh closed the folder, holding it against her chest. “It’s got good light. For your studio. And space. For… things. A crib. Whatever.”
The offer hung between them, massive and mundane all at once. It wasn’t just a safe-house. It was a home. A proposal built of bricks and vulnerability.
Ana stepped closer, took the folder from Nevaieh’s hands, and looked at the picture again. That stubborn, flickering light. “A yard, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna put up a swing?”
Nevaieh’s lips quirked, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I’ll have Leo put up a swing.”
Ana nodded, handing the image back. She linked her arm through Nevaieh’s, feeling the solid muscle beneath the jacket, the tremor that was finally stilling. “Alright then. Let’s go see this house.”
They walked down the street, the sonogram images tucked away, the relentless, whooshing echo of the heartbeat now a silent, permanent rhythm between them, mapping a new and uncertain territory with every step.
They walked down the street, the sonogram images tucked away, the relentless, whooshing echo of the heartbeat now a silent, permanent rhythm between them, mapping a new and uncertain territory with every step.
Nevaieh’s SUV was parked a block down, a matte black outline against the glittering wet pavement. She clicked the locks, the sound sharp in the damp air. “The brownstone’s ten minutes away,” she said, sliding behind the wheel. “If you hate it, we look somewhere else.”
Ana buckled in, resting a hand on her stomach. “You bought a whole house and never lived in it?”
“It was an asset.” Nevaieh started the engine, the low growl vibrating through the seats. “A property with good sightlines and two exits. I never thought about the yard.” She paused, her hands tightening on the wheel. “Until today.”
The admission hung there, simple and huge. Ana watched the city blur past, the clinics and bars giving way to tree-lined streets with stoops and sagging porches. It was a different Chicago, quieter, layered with the ghosts of family dinners and bike locks on fences.
Nevaieh pulled up to a three-story brick building tucked between a coffee shop and a vintage record store. It was sturdy, painted a deep slate blue with crisp white trim. A black iron fence enclosed a small, neat rectangle of grass out front. “Leo’s cousin is a gardener,” Nevaieh said, cutting the engine. “He keeps it up.”
The inside smelled of citrus polish and fresh paint. The floors were reclaimed oak, scarred and warm underfoot. After the penthouse’s icy perfection, this felt lived-in, potential humming in the empty rooms. Sunlight poured through the back windows onto a deck overlooking that fenced yard.
“The ground floor,” Nevaieh said, leading her through an archway into a large, bright room with north-facing windows. “This could be the studio. You could partition a waiting area there. The plumbing’s already run for a sink.”
Ana walked to the center of the space, imagining her tattoo chair here, her neon signs in those windows, clients walking in off a street full of normal noise. Not hiding. “It’s perfect,” she whispered, the truth of it swelling in her chest.
Nevaieh nodded, a fraction of the tension leaving her shoulders. She pointed to a solid-looking door beside the brick fireplace. “Panic room. It’s behind there. Looks like a closet. Fully stocked, independent air, landline.”
The words were clinical, but the delivery wasn’t. It was matter-of-fact, a presentation of tools. Ana turned to face her. “Nevaieh.”
“I need to say this.” Nevaieh met her gaze, her dark eyes clear and unwavering. “My life isn’t clean. There are people. Rivalries. Stupid, petty grudges that last generations. That’s the reality.”
She took a step closer, her voice dropping, not with fear, but with fierce precision. “I’m not telling you this to scare you. I’m telling you so we don’t pretend. You and Bean are the most visible part of me now. That comes with a weight.”
Ana didn’t flinch. “I know what it means to be a beacon.”
“This is different.” Nevaieh’s jaw worked. “Before, you were a complication. Now? You’re the target. Anyone wanting to get to me will look here first.” She let that sit, a hard, ugly truth in the sunny room. “So we don’t hide. We prepare. The security here isn’t a cage. It’s a foundation. So you can work, and Bean can play in that yard, and no one has to live looking over their shoulder.”
“What does ‘prepare’ mean, exactly?” Ana asked, crossing her arms.
“It means the system here is military-grade. It means Leo or his brother Mateo will be on the block, always. It means you have a direct line to me, always, that bypasses everything.” Nevaieh’s expression was open, a blueprint of her priorities laid bare. “It means I handle my business cleaner now. No loose ends. No public spectacles. It means our life here is quiet, but it’s not a secret. The people who need to know, will know this is off-limits. They’ll know the cost.”
Ana walked to the back window, watching a sparrow hop along the fence. The whooshing sound seemed to echo in her bones, a tiny metronome measuring the stakes. “No hiding.”
“No hiding,” Nevaieh confirmed, joining her at the glass. “Just a clear line. On their side of it, they mind their business. On our side…” She gestured to the room, the yard, the space. “On our side, we live.”
Ana leaned her head against Nevaieh’s shoulder, feeling the solidity there. “I can work with a clear line.”
“Good.” Nevaieh exhaled, a long, slow release. She pulled the sonogram image from her jacket, looked at it, then tacked it squarely to the wall with a pushpin from her pocket. It sat alone on the vast field of painted drywall. A starting point. “Then we start moving you in tomorrow. Your Camaro’s already in the garage out back.”
Ana laughed, the sound bright and surprising in the empty house. “You had my car towed?”
“Relocated,” Nevaieh corrected, a real smile finally touching her eyes. “Strategic asset placement. The nursery goes in the room above the kitchen. It gets the morning light.”