She's still trembling.

"Hey," I say, reaching over, stroking her cheek. "It's going to be okay, baby."

"You promise?"

I stare at her, wiping away a stray tear as it falls. "I swear it, Karissa. We're going to be fine."

She smiles, a sad kind of smile, as she reaches up and places her hand over my hand. She lets go after a moment, turning her head to gaze out the side window at the quiet neighborhood.

I start to drive away, and she stays quiet for a while, before she lets out a deep sigh. "Did you kill him?"

"Who?"

"The man in the building. The one… tonight."

I pull up to a red light, sitting there for a moment, before quietly answering, "Yeah, I did."

She closes her eyes.

She expected that answer.

She still doesn't like it, though. This world isn't for her. The violence, the bloodshed, the murder... it's just not her. She struggles accepting that I end lives.

She'd never forgive herself if she knew she killed that guy.

I hate lying to her. I hate it. But I lie to her this time.

I lie to her to spare her.

Because no matter what he did, or what he would've done had he not been stopped, he was still a human being to Karissa.

He had a beating heart.

"We should get you to a doctor," I say, changing the subject. "Head to the closest hospital."

"No." Her voice is sharp, almost panicked, as she reaches over, placing her hand on my arm. "No hospitals. Hospitals mean police which mean questions. Questions about where I was, questions about what happened, questions about you, and me, and I'm just tired of answering questions. I just... I want to go home."

"But I need to make sure you're okay."

"What about that guy? Dr. Carter?"

"He's a veterinarian, Karissa."

"So? That didn't stop you from calling him when you were shot."

"Don't be ridiculous. You need a real doctor."

"For what? A few stitches on my foot? I can sew it up myself."

I wait until we reach another red light before I respond. She's being absurd. I know it's because she's scared, but I can't risk it.

"You're pregnant, Karissa. It's not just you I'm worried about."

"I know, but..." She lets out a deep sigh. "How is it going to help us if you get locked up? You killed someone tonight, Naz, and the building... it blew up. What are they going to think if I show up at the hospital, smelling like a fucking meth house?"

There's no winning this argument.

I can already tell it.

She has tears in her eyes, and I can't push her right now, not when she's already so traumatized. Sighing, I pull out my phone, looking through it for Michael Carter's number. He answers on the second ring, his voice hesitant. "Hello?"

"It's Vitale. I need you to meet me at my house."

"Is it an emergency?"

"I wouldn't call you if it wasn't."

With that, I hang up.

I told him to be there, so I know he'll come.

"A compromise," I tell her. "Dr. Carter will look you over, but if he's concerned, if he thinks there might be a problem, we go straight to the hospital."

"Fair enough."

As soon as we get home, we head inside, and the first thing Karissa does is call out for her dog.

Killer comes right away.

Ears laid down, tail wagging, tongue out, he jumps up on her, and I go to stop him, but Karissa takes it in stride. She slips right down to the floor, plopping on her ass in the living room, and hugs him as she again starts crying.

I give them a moment, excusing myself to the kitchen. I splash water on my face from the sink before staring at my hazy reflection in the window, running my hands through my hair.

Please be all right.

Dr. Carter isn't far behind us. He pulls into my driveway, squealing tires, driving like a bat out of hell. As soon as I open the door, he looks me over, stepping into the foyer, carrying a black medical bag. "What's wrong with you?"

Hell of a question.

Wouldn't even know where to begin answering that.

"It's actually Karissa," I tell him, pointing toward the living room where she's still sitting. "I need you to take a look at her."

Confusion clouds his expression as he heads that way. Right away, he fixates on her foot. "Ah, why don't you come to the kitchen and we'll get you fixed up?"

Karissa stands up, making her way toward the kitchen, with Killer protectively right on her heels. I stall in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, giving them space. Karissa climbs up on the counter, washing her filthy foot right in the sink. Dr. Carter grabs her by the calf and surveys the gash.

He doesn't ask any questions about how she got injured. He knows better than to pry. Wordlessly, he opens his bag and starts digging out supplies. "You're going to need a few stitches. I didn't bring anything to numb the area, because, well, Vitale never wants it, so if you've got any liquor around here, now's probably the time to break it out."

She clears her throat, and I can barely hear her when she says, "I can't."

Dr. Carter looks at her peculiarly. "Oh, right... not old enough, huh?"

"No. Well, I mean, you're right, but that's not why." She pauses. "I'm pregnant."

He freezes, eyes widening, like that shocks him. He doesn't comment, though, as he turns back to his supplies. "It'll hurt a bit. Feels like someone pushing a needle and thread through your skin, because, well, that's pretty much what I'll be doing."

He lets out an awkward laugh.

He's nervous, working on her.

I figured he would be.

The man sews me up all the time without issue. He happily takes my cash in exchange for subpar medical care. He does it, knowing I don't expect perfection, knowing his silence is what really matters to me. I've been through hell and back, dragged myself out of the pit more than a few times, toying with death because I don't fear it.

But her? She's different.

He has to take extra care with Karissa.

"It's okay," she says quietly. "I'm sure I've felt worse."

Before me, she hadn't. She'd been coddled. People were careful. But I introduced pain into her life. Don't know that I'll ever forgive myself for that.

Carter does what he needs to, getting down to business, giving her five stitches right on the side of the foot. The second the needle goes in, Karissa grimaces, but she doesn't make a sound even though I know it stings.

As soon as he finishes, he takes a step back, eyeing her. I know he can smell the ether. It's a potent stench. Once you smell it, it's a smell you never forget. Reaching into his bag, he grabs a stethoscope, warming it before pressing the metal to her chest.

He's not an idiot. That's why I employ him.

He can figure out the real issue here.

"How far along are you?" he asks, listening to her heartbeat. His voice is casual, like he's just making conversation, but I know he's taking this serious.

"Eight weeks... or, uh, I guess maybe nine now."

He motions for her to turn her body as he moves to her back, pushing her shirt up, using the stethoscope to listen to her lungs. "Deep breaths for me."