Page 11 of Till The Sun Dies (Checkmate 2)

“Wake up. Laine, you need to wake up.” I tap her face, and when she doesn’t react, I stand with her almost naked body in my arms, and turn toward the door, slipping on the wet tile. I rush toward the hallway and set her on cold floorboard. With fumbling hands, I search for the pulse in her throat with my left, and search my pockets for my cell with the right.

I can’t find a pulse.

I don’t know how to find a pulse.

We all know what TV shows us, but I can’t find the right spot on her neck.

Or maybe Ihavefound the right spot, but there’s no pulse.

That’s not fucking acceptable!

I hit the red emergency button on my cell and wait for the call to connect. Dripping wet and wearing nothing but an ugly bra and panties, her long hair splays out on the wooden floor, water and blood pooling beneath her body.

“9-1-1, police, fire, or ambulance? How may I direct your call?”

“Ambulance!” I search her body, landing on the slash that spans from her wrist almost to her elbow – the place that life is escaping her body – leaving me breathless. “I need an ambulance! Suicide attempt, I think. She’s not conscious. We need help.”

“Alright.” The droning voice is so calm, so bored and unbothered. “Address please, sir.”

Squeezing Laine’s wrist until I crush delicate bones in my palm, I rattle off the name and number of her street and pray she wakes up. I can’t let her go. It’s not time for her to go yet.

I can’t do this again.

“Wake up, Laine. Please wake up.” Memories batter at my brain; a bathtub, white tiles, a raging inferno, and melting skin. “I need you to wake up. I’m begging you.”

It takes only minutes for the screaming sounds of an ambulance to tear into her street. This a small town, the hospital is only three minutes away, and the dispatch caller knows everyone and their dog, so the second Laine’s last name left my lips, her boredom was dropped and suddenly my call was escalated to priority.

This address belongs to one of the hospital’s very own nursing staff, and the last name belongs to an emergency responder.

I brush blonde hair off her cheek with one hand, and crush her wrist with the other as I try to hold her together. “Why’d you do this, Laine?” Tears drip off the tip of my nose and plop onto her chest. I don’t remember the last time I cried – maybe that last time with my mom? – but I cry now. “Why, Laine? Why would you leave?”

Mercifully, a faint pulse thrums beneath my palm. It’s soft. Way softer than mine. But it’s there, and that’s all she needs until the ambulance gets here.

“Ang?” Her whispered word forces a sob to burst from my chest. Her ocean blue eyes flutter open for the barest second, and her lips, always so full and thick, turn into a small smile. “You’re such a pretty angel.”

“No!” Rage courses through my blood. “Not an angel, Laine! You’re not dead. You’re still here and you’re not allowed to go.”

Her eyes flutter closed when the front door crashes open. “Laine!” I shake her. “Wake up! You’re not allowed to sleep.”

“Angelo?” Libby Tate, a local police officer moves through the hall and stops with a gun in her hand and a white washed face. She studies me, then Laine. “Is anyone else here?”

I shake my head.

Turning on her heels, she waves medical personnel in. “Go! Scene’s clear. Move in.” She grabs at the radio on her shoulder. “Scene is secure. Medical are moving in. No weapons apparent. PT unconscious. Send another cruiser.” Her eyes come back to mine for a long beat before she adds, “Don’t tell the chief yet.”

“Sir!” Men in navy blue uniforms flood the hallway and shove me aside. None of them are Luc, none of them are Kari, but the family resemblance between Luc and his sisters is uncanny. They know she’s special. “Move aside, sir. You need to move out of the way.”

I shuffle back as the EMTs snap open med bags right beside Laine’s head. They’re rough with her. They’resorough. They jam her eyelids open and stab needles into the arm that isn’t sliced open. They slap an oxygen mask over her face, and roll her onto her side when her chest seizes and she begins choking.

They rush a stretcher into the living room, then slam it against walls and jam it into the hallway.

On a ‘one, two, go’, two men I know by name lift her like she weighs nothing. They drop her onto the bed and strap her in for transport. I watch them move; both fast and slow. It feels like a lifetime of her not being awake, of her not breathing on her own.

Of her leaving me before I got to tell her how I feel.

But at the same time, it’s fast. They move at the speed of light and rush her away. The second they wheel her out of the hallway, my mind whips back into real time and I’m on their heels.

Shouted instructions.

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