Chapter 44
Liv
The call comes in just as I’m restocking the last of the airway kits.
My hand pauses halfway to the cabinet. Stopped breathing… now breathing again? I grab the radio. “Dispatch, confirm patient status?”
There’s a burst of static. “Caller is unsure. States patient is ‘not right.’”
Not right. That’s not how people describe cardiac arrest.
Scott is already sliding into the driver’s seat, tossing me a look. “We rolling?”
“Yeah.” I sling the bag over my shoulder and climb in. “But something’s off.”
“When is it not?” he mutters, flipping on lights and sirens as we pull out.
I glance down at the CAD screen. No apartment number, just a street address. “Dispatch,” I try again, “can we get a unit or apartment number?”
Another delay, longer this time. “Caller advised you’ll be flagged down.”
I don’t like that either right now.
The streets get narrower the closer we get.
Streetlights flicker in uneven patches, casting long stretching shadows between pools of dull yellow light. The GPS lags for a second, recalculating like it’s second-guessing the route.
I tap the screen. “It’s this next turn.”
Scott slows slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that I notice.
“Caller still on the line?” I ask.
“Negative,” dispatch answers. “Caller disconnected.”
Of course they did. My grip tightens on the edge of my seat. Something’s wrong. Not a vague feeling or nerves, but pattern recognition.
“We should stage,” I say.
Scott glances at me. “For a cardiac?”
“No apartment number, inconsistent symptoms, caller dropped-”
“We’re already here, Liv.”
The rig rolls to a stop, and the silence hits first. No one’s outside. No one’s waving us down. There’s no movement in the windows. Just a narrow stretch of street with a single building and a door hanging slightly ajar. It’s all too quiet.
I scan automatically. Parked car to the left, engine ticking like it was shut off recently. Another across the street. Dark windows. No bystanders. No voices.
My pulse spikes. “Scott, wait.”
But he’s already opening his door. “Probably just some guy passed out,” he says, grabbing the monitor.
I’m out a second later, but slower, more deliberately. The air feels… wrong. Dead. I adjust the strap of my med bag, eyes moving, across the door, windows, car, shadows… there. A shape where there shouldn’t be one. It’s too still, like it’s watching.
“Scott-”
The door slams open. Everything happens at once. Figures surge from the shadows, too many moving too fast.
“Hey-!” Scott starts but a crack splits the air.
Scott jerks. The sound hits a half-second later. A gunshot. He goes down hard, blood covering his pant leg.
“Scott!” I drop instantly, hands already moving, getting pressure on it then checking-
Blood. Not arterial, but too much.
“Stay with me. Hey, stay with me.”
Footsteps pound toward us. I shove harder against the wound, dragging him backward toward the rig.
“Liv-” he grits out, already sounding weak with fear and some shock starting.
“I’ve got you.”
Another shadow lunges. I twist, slamming the ambulance door outward with everything I have. It connects with a solid thud and a curse. Good. I grab the handle, hauling Scott inch by inch.
“Come on. Come on-”
Hands grab at my jacket. I wrench free, heart hammering. No time to think. Just move. Just get him inside.
“Olivia Carter.”
The world stops. Not because the chaos ends. But because my body recognizes the voice before my brain puts the pieces together. Everything in me goes rigid.
No. No, no, no…
I turn slowly.
He steps out of the shadows like he’s been there the entire time. Calm, untouched, and in control.
York Malone. My father.
Rage hits first, hot and immediate.
I lunge for Scott again, trying to drag him the last few feet. A hand clamps around my arm. Hard, too hard. Pain shoots up to my shoulder. The grip is precise and controlling.
“Let go of me!” I twist, trying to rip free, but his hold only tightens.
“You shouldn’t have run,” he says, voice low with disappointment like I inconvenienced him.
My vision tunnels. “Get. Off.” I drive my heel back, aiming blind.
He shifts, absorbing it easily.
I reach for anything; bag, tools, something I can use but he yanks me forward. My feet stumble. I slam into the side of the ambulance. Air punches out of my lungs.
“Scott-!” I choke, twisting to look back.
He’s still on the ground, too still. Blood dark against the pavement. No- No, no-
I surge again, desperation overriding everything. My father’s grip tightens.
“Enough.” He drags me. I fight. God, I fight.
Kicking, clawing, and twisting, anything to break free.
My hand catches the edge of the ambulance door.
For a second, just a second, I have leverage.
I pull, but his other hand clamps down. Pain flares, my grip slips, and that’s it. That tiny moment is all it takes.
He hauls me up into the back of the ambulance. I slam into the bench. Equipment rattles around us. The space feels too small. Too tight and wrong. This is where I’m supposed to be in control. This is where I save people. Now it’s a cage.
I scramble back, reaching for anything but he’s already inside. The doors slam against each other behind him. The sound echoes like a gunshot.
I lunge again but he catches my wrists this time, pinning them with brutal efficiency.
“Stop.”
“Go to hell,” I spit, thrashing against him.