Page 59 of In Case You Didn't Know
Fury tightens my chest. “We’re covering his care, right?”
Brad nods. “He has a private room, a top neurologist. We’ve spoken with his wife. She’s there with their baby.”
Jesus. They just had a kid.
I rake a hand through my hair. Shaun’s lying in a hospital bed because of me. Because someone wanted to make a point.
“Send flowers, food, anything they need,” I tell Brad. “Offer security if she wants it. A babysitter too.”
He nods grimly. “Already on it.”
I turn to Claire. “Once he’s stable, I want to talk to him.”
Her lips curl. “You planning to interview my witness?”
“I just want to make sure he’s okay. If he remembers anything, you’ll get it.”
She gives me a pointed look. “Sure I will, Fitzgerald.”
I ignore that. But I will speak to Shaun first.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.Francie Salinger. Just seeing her name punches the air from my lungs.
There’s already a voicemail too. I shouldn’t listen here. But my thumb hovers over the screen.
Even now, in the middle of all this wreckage, I want to hear her voice. To know she’s okay after last night.
But I tuck the phone back in my pocket.
I can’t listen yet. Because I know a phone call won’t be enough. And right now, I can’t have more.
It’s late afternoon when I leave Shaun’s hospital room, murmuring reassurances to his wife. I tell her not to worry about anything. I’ll handle it all. Just focus on him. On their baby. But I’m carrying the guilt like a weight on my shoulders.
I head for the stairwell – six floors isn’t much – but stop cold at the sign on the door.
Maintenance underway. Please use elevators.
I stare at it like it’s mocking me. Of course. One more thing to make today worse.
I glance toward the elevator bank, silver doors gleaming under the fluorescent lights. One dings open. An orderly wheels out a cart, chatting with a nurse, like the walls aren’t closing in.
My pulse spikes. Sweat prickles at the back of my neck.
This is ridiculous. I’ve run black-ops security for billionaires. Sat across tables from men who’d kill me for blinking wrong. But a metal box? That terrifies me.
It’s the smallness. The stillness. The lack of escape.
I curse under my breath and step inside anyway, bracing myself against the back wall. Just one button to press.G. Ten seconds, maybe. But my chest’s already tight.
The doors close. The elevator hums.
And suddenly I’m ten years old again, locked in the dark, listening to my father scream.
I hit the wall with my fist, pain flaring in my knuckles. It does nothing. The nausea’s already rising.
When the doors open, I stagger out, adrenaline crashing. I barely make it to a planter outside before I’m retching, doubled over like I’ve been punched in the gut.
My legs give out. I sink to the concrete, back against the cool stone. Gasping. Waiting for the panic to fade.
