Chapter 37 Nina
NINA
Fifteen hours.
That’s how long I’ve been watching Austin fight for his life, and every minute feels like a small eternity. The hospital chairs weren’t designed for marathon vigils, but I’ve made myself at home in the pediatric wing anyway.
Alessio hasn’t left my side, which should be comforting, but right now he looks as helpless as I feel.
The medication that was supposed to buy us time has failed. I can see it in Dr. Murphy’s face before she even starts talking. She’s got that careful, practiced expression that doctors perfect for delivering bad news, and my stomach drops to my feet.
“We’re going to have to perform the surgery,” she says, settling into the chair across from us.
I flinch at the words, even though I knew they were coming. Alessio’s hand finds mine, his fingers surprisingly clammy for someone who usually radiates confidence.
“Are you certain there’s no other option?” I ask, keeping my voice level through sheer willpower.
“The valve needs immediate repair. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but waiting any longer puts Austin at greater risk.”
She walks us through the procedure with the kind of clinical thoroughness that should be reassuring but somehow makes everything feel more terrifying. Surgical techniques. Potential complications. Recovery timelines. Each detail presses down until it’s hard to breathe.
I sign the consent forms with fingers that barely shake, because falling apart isn’t an option. Not when Austin needs me to be the mother who believes everything will be okay.
Two hours later, I’m standing beside his hospital bed, trying to memorize his face.
He looks so small against the white sheets. All dark hair and a dimple that mirrors his father’s, watching me with the kind of trust that could break a person in half.
I try to memorize the curve of his cheek, the way his hair sticks up in the back no matter how much I smooth it down, the tiny freckle just below his left ear that only I know about.
What if something goes wrong? What if this is the last time I see those eyes looking at me with complete faith that I can fix anything?
“You’re going to take a little nap,” I tell him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “When you wake up, all the scary stuff will be over.”
“Will you be here?” His voice is barely a whisper.
“Every second.” I lean down and kiss his cheek, breathing in that sweet little boy smell that’s uniquely his. “Your dad and I aren’t going anywhere.”
I wish I had control over what happens in that operating room. I wish my presence in the waiting room could somehow protect him from the risks he’s about to face.
Alessio steps forward, his jaw tight with controlled emotion. When he kisses Austin’s forehead, I see his hands tremble slightly.
“See you soon, bambino.”
Then we watch them wheel our son away, and I feel like they’re taking half my soul with them.
The surgical waiting room exists in its own special kind of hell. Fluorescent lights that never dim. Chairs that seem designed to maximize discomfort. The smell of industrial coffee and barely contained panic.
Other families huddle in distant corners, each lost in their own private nightmare. A woman in her fifties clutches a rosary. An elderly man stares at his hands like they hold answers. We’re all members of the same unwanted club.
Keshia showed up an hour ago with decent coffee and nervous energy, asking every few minutes if there’s anything she can do.
Unless she can turn back time and magically fix my son’s heart, there’s nothing anyone can do but wait.
Instead of saying that, I just shake my head and watch Alessio wear a path in the linoleum.
The commotion in the hallway cuts through my fog like a knife.
Two men in suits approach with purposeful strides, heading directly toward us. When they stop in front of our little group, one of them pulls out a badge.
“Detective Greene, Las Vegas Metro.” His eyes lock on me with laser focus. “You’re Nina Walker, formerly Mrs. Newell?”
Eric. My stomach clenches. Of course it’s about Eric. I should have known this moment would come eventually, but the timing couldn’t be more brutal.
“Yes.” My voice comes out steady, which is a small miracle. “That’s me.”
Alessio materializes at my side, tension radiating off him like heat from pavement.
“We need you to come downtown and answer questions regarding the death of your ex-husband, Eric Newell.”
The words land like punches. Quick. Brutal. Designed to knock me off balance.
“Are you insane?” The question erupts before I can stop it. “My son is in heart surgery. I’m not leaving this hospital.”
The second detective, who hasn’t bothered introducing himself, steps forward with cold authority. “This isn’t a request, ma’am. We have an ongoing murder investigation.”
“Are you threatening to arrest me?” I straighten my shoulders, drawing on every ounce of strength I’ve built over the years. These men want to drag me away from Austin when he needs me most, but I won’t make it easy for them.
“If necessary, yes.”
Alessio’s response is immediate and dangerous. A low growl that makes both detectives take an unconscious step back.
“You’ll keep your damn hands off her.”
Detective Greene’s eyes narrow. “And you are?”
“Alessio DeLuca.” His voice drops to something lethal. “You might know my uncle, Lorenzo Andretti.”
The effect is instantaneous. Both detectives go very still, recognition flickering across their faces like warning lights. I watch them recalibrate, suddenly unsure of their ground.
But we’re attracting stares from other families, and the tension is thick enough to choke on. A scene here won’t help anyone, especially not Austin. As much as I want to tell these detectives where they can shove their investigation, refusing will only escalate things.
Better to handle this quickly and get back where I belong.
“I’ll go,” I say, placing a hand on Alessio’s arm before he can explode.
“Like hell you will.” His voice could cut glass.
“Stay here for Austin.” I meet his gaze, trying to communicate everything I can’t say out loud. “I’ll handle this and be back before he wakes up.”
Alessio searches my face, his jaw working. Finally, he nods.
“Don’t say a word until your lawyer arrives.”
I don’t mention that I don’t have a lawyer. Something tells me that problem just solved itself.
The ride to the police station passes in tense silence. I stare out the window at Las Vegas rushing by and try not to think about Austin waking up without me there.
A man in an expensive suit is waiting when we arrive. He approaches immediately, extending his hand.
“Ms. Walker? I’m Mr. King. Mr. DeLuca sent me.” His grip is firm, reassuring. “Don’t say anything beyond basic responses to direct questions. I’ll handle the rest.”
The interrogation room looks like every cop show I’ve ever seen. Two-way mirror. Metal table. Uncomfortable chairs designed to make you want to confess just to escape them.
The wait stretches endlessly. Minutes crawl by like hours, each one taking me further from where I need to be. How long has Austin been in surgery? Is he okay? My leg bounces under the table until Mr. King gives me a look that says stay calm.
When the detectives finally return, Detective Greene settles across from me with predatory satisfaction. His partner lurks in the corner, staring at me like he’s trying to read my thoughts.
“When did you last see your ex-husband, Ms. Walker?”
I pretend to consider the question, even though that night is burned into my memory with perfect clarity. Every detail. Every word. Every moment.
“A few months after our divorce. I can’t remember exactly when.”
“You’re aware we discovered his body buried on property you owned together during your marriage?”
“I saw it on the news, yes.”
Detective Greene leans forward, his smile sharp enough to cut. “I want to be up front with you, Ms. Walker. You’re a suspect in this investigation.”
I stare at him, genuinely shocked. “Based on what evidence?”
“We spoke with a neighbor who heard Eric arguing with a woman the night he disappeared. This neighbor also remembers seeing a car that matches one registered to you seven years ago.”
“Plenty of people drive old Toyotas,” I say. “You can’t prove it was mine.”
“My client makes a valid point,” Mr. King adds.
Detective Greene’s smile turns sharp. “The neighbor remembers because she was concerned about Ms. Walker. Tell me, why would your neighbor worry about seeing you at your ex-husband’s house?”
Sweat prickles across my forehead. This can’t be happening. Even dead, Eric is still finding ways to cause me problems.
“I think your client killed her ex-husband in revenge for years of abuse.”
The room feels like it's shrinking around me as I struggle to draw a full breath.
The accusation hangs in the air between us, ugly and raw. They think they know what happened that night, but they don’t understand anything.
I didn’t go there with a plan. There was no revenge plot.
When I killed the son of a bitch, it was a complete surprise to us both.