Chapter 54 #2
I stumble backward, watching in a horrified daze as they swarm around James. The paramedics are a whirlwind of efficient, urgent movements. They cut away the sleeve of his shirt, calling out terms I don’t understand.
The second police officer approaches me, notebook out. “Can you tell me what happened here, ma’am?”
“I d-don’t know,” I stammer, shaking my head.
“He called me. He sounded drunk. Then I heard a horrible crashing sound. Like something heavy hit the floor. And he stopped answering me. I got worried and hurried here. I found him like this.” I press a hand to my quivering mouth, hot tears spilling down my face.
“So you weren’t here when this occurred?”
I shake my head vehemently, watching a paramedic secure a bandage around James’s arm.
“Let’s get him on the stretcher. Now!”
The words snap me back.
They’re taking him.
As they wheel the stretcher toward the door, I rush forward. “Wait. Can I come with you?”
The paramedic gives me a quick, assessing look. “Are you family?”
“Yes,” I lie. The single word tastes like ash in my mouth. “I’m his fiancée.”
He nods. “Alright. Let’s go.”
I grab my phone, throw it in my purse, and follow them out, leaving the wreckage of James’s apartment behind.
I climb into the back of the ambulance. The doors slam shut, sealing me in with the unconscious man whose hold over me was supposed to be broken. The vehicle lurches forward, beginning its rapid tear through the streets of Madison, its siren a deafening wail.
I’m huddled on a small bench seat in the corner, feeling utterly useless, my hands painted in James’s drying blood. Two paramedics work over his still form. One places an oxygen mask over his pale face. The other expertly inserts an IV line into his uninjured hand.
They are calm.
They are in control.
I am the only one falling apart.
My mind becomes a merciless projector, flashing images against my eyelids.
The shattered glass.
The pool of blood.
The sickening sound I heard over the phone.
But most of all, his broken, slurred admission:
You were real… the only real thing in my pathetic life… I royally fucked up with you, Mimi.
This is all my fault. The thought settles like a sharp stone in my gut. I pushed him.
I did this.
The word I lied to the paramedic with echoes in my ears.
Fiancée.
I had to claim a title I despise just to be here. Trapped in this speeding box with the man whose cage I just escaped, praying he doesn’t die.
The ambulance makes a sharp turn, and my gaze falls to my hands. They are trembling, the reddish-brown stains stark against my pale skin.
This is his blood.
A wave of nausea rolls through me. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to breathe through my nose.
The sirens wind down, and the lurching motion stops. The back doors are thrown open, flooding the space with the harsh lights of the emergency bay. A new team in scrubs waits with a gurney.
“What do we have?” a doctor asks, his voice sharp and authoritative.
The paramedics rattle off numbers and terms as they transfer James from their stretcher to the hospital’s gurney.
It’s a blur of professional chaos. They rush him inside, down a brightly lit corridor.
I scramble out of the ambulance, following, until a nurse with a kind expression puts a hand on my arm to stop me.
“We’ll take it from here,” she says gently. “You can wait in the family waiting room. Down the hall to your left.”
And just like that, I’m left alone in the sterile hallway. The organized chaos of the ER swallowing James whole. The adrenaline that has been holding me together vanishes all at once, leaving me shaky, cold, and utterly lost.
I find the grim waiting room and collapse into one of the plastic chairs, my body succumbing to the tremors. I drop my head into my hands, the smell of dried blood and antiseptic filling my senses.
My phone, buried deep in my purse, begins to vibrate. The sound is alien and violent in the quiet of this empty room. I stare at my purse, unable to move. The phone continues its relentless summons.
With a shaking hand, I pull it out.
My heart stops when I look at the screen.
Matthew.
And underneath, in tiny bold letters:
5 Missed Calls
A fresh wave of nausea hits me. In my all-consuming panic for James, I had completely forgotten about Matthew. About him picking me up from the café.
My thumb hovers over the screen, trembling. I know I have to answer.
I swipe to accept the call. “Matt,” I whisper his name, a broken sound.
“Amy, thank God! Where have you been? Are you okay?”
Hearing his loving, worried voice finally shatters me completely. A ragged sob escapes me, my entire body shaking with the force of it.
“Fuck,” he mutters on the other end. “Please… where are you?”
“I’m at S-st. M-mary’s,” I choke out, my voice weepy and trembling. “Emergency.”
“St. Mary’s Hospital? Emergency?” he repeats, his voice now tight with alarm. “What happened? Amy, what happened?”
I try to answer, but my throat is tight. I can only manage a series of broken, hiccuping sobs.
“Please talk to me, love. Please,” he pleads, his voice desperate. I can hear the sound of a car engine roaring to life. “Please tell me you’re okay.”
“It’s not me,” I finally gasp. “It’s… it’s James.”
The silence that follows is stark.
Chilling.
When he speaks again, his tone is completely flat, devoid of all the worry from a moment ago. “James. You’re at the hospital for James.”
“He called me, and, and he—”
“I’m on my way.”
He hangs up.
I don’t know how long I sit there, lost in a fog of guilt and exhaustion, until rapidly approaching footsteps pull my attention to the doorway.
It’s Matthew.
He stands there, his face a mask of tight-lipped fury. His eyes, when they find mine, are filled with a chilling, lawyerly appraisal.
He is angrier than I’ve ever seen him.
But I don’t care.
I push myself up, my legs clumsy and weak, and stumble in a rush toward him. He starts walking toward me, his stride long and purposeful, his expression hard as stone. Until his eyes truly take me in.
They fly wide with sheer terror, the color draining from his face. “Amy,” he breathes, my name a horrified sound.
He closes the remaining distance in a single, anxious step just as I crash into his chest. I bury my face into him, finally letting myself fall apart.
His arms crush me to him, one hand desperately gripping my neck, holding my head to his shoulder.
For a moment, he’s rigid with shock. Then he’s pushing me back, hands gripping my shoulders, eyes scanning me frantically from head to toe.
His hands are trembling as they frame my face, his terrified gaze searching. “Is this your blood? Are you hurt?” he demands, his voice rough with panic.
I can only stand there, tears flooding my cheeks, unable to answer.
He tilts my face up, his voice cracking. “Amy, please. Is it yours?”
The raw terror in his eyes finally cuts through my haze. I manage a weak, jerky shake of my head.
The relief that washes over him is so profound. It’s like watching a tidal wave recede. His shoulders slump, his head dropping as he lets out a long, shuddering breath.
When he lifts his head again, a deep, simmering turmoil has replaced the terror in his eyes. “Then whose blood is this?”
“James,” I whisper. I see the confusion, and frustration, return to his face.
Matthew steps back, taking me in. “Come.” He takes my hand, his grip strong and nonnegotiable.
He leads me across the sterile corridor to a single-stall accessible restroom, pushing the door open and pulling me inside with him. He turns the lock after it swings shut and guides me by the elbow to the large basin sink. His movements are controlled, but I can feel a rigid tension in his arms.
He turns on the tap, adjusting the water until it’s warm.
He takes my blood-covered hands in his and positions them under the stream.
He reaches for the soap dispenser, his hands steady around mine.
Despite the furious ticking of the muscle in his jaw, his touch is incredibly gentle as he methodically lathers the soap.
He carefully washes away the horror from my palms, his gaze fixed on the task.
“So much glass… and blood, oh God, so much blood…” I mumble, staring at the pink-tinged water as it swirls down the drain.
The sight of it makes the nausea I’ve been suppressing rise again.
Hot and fast. My stomach clenches violently.
I rip my hands from his and lurch towards the toilet, a choked gag tearing from my throat.
I barely make it before my body convulses, heaving up the scant contents of my stomach into the bowl.
The world narrows to the cold porcelain beneath my hands and the violent spasms racking my body. A firm hand immediately comes to rest on my back. Another gathers my ponytail, holding it securely away from my face.
His presence is a rigid, silent wall behind me.
The heaving subsides, leaving me empty and trembling. Too weak to get up, my body gives out, and I slide to the cold tiles of the floor.
Matthew flushes the toilet. A moment later, he crouches in front of me, pressing a damp paper towel to the back of my neck and uses another to wipe my mouth and forehead.
When he looks me in the face, the fury is still there, a chilling, controlled storm in the depths of his eyes.
He reaches out and firmly tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“Breathe,” he instructs with tense practicality.
I take a shaky, obedient breath.
“I thought… him lying there, all that blood… I really thought he was dead,” I croak, my eyes welling with fresh tears.
Matthew flinches. A storm of emotions wars behind his eyes before he stands and helps me to my feet. His arm is a firm support around my waist, guiding me back to the sink. He runs the water, wetting a thick wad of paper towels. He dabs under my eyes and wipes my cheeks and jawline.
He tosses the soiled paper towels into the bin and turns to grip the edge of the sink. He hunches over, his head tucking into his chest.
A heavy silence fills the small space.
My heart aches for him. For the pain I’ve caused him. I take a hesitant step closer and place my hand on his back, feeling the rigid tension of his muscles through the fine fabric of his suit.
He straightens at my touch. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and holds it out to me without making eye contact. “Wear this,” he says, his voice flat.
I take the jacket, confused by his tone, and slip it on. The scent of him is a slight comfort.
“Let’s go. I’m taking you home.” His expression is closed off.
The finality in his tone makes me recoil. “I can’t leave.”
A muscle feathers in his jaw. “What?”
“I need to make sure he’s okay,” I clarify, my voice a pleading whisper.
I see the hurt flash across his face before it’s replaced by that detached, lawyerly mask. “You did your part. You called for help. He’ll live.” His words are clipped.
He reaches past me, turning the lock with a decisive click. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
“How can you be so cold?” The words escape me in a rush of disbelief. “He was bleeding all over the floor. He could have—”
“Amy.” He opens his mouth to say more, but then shuts it abruptly.
Unadulterated frustration takes over his features. He runs both hands furiously down his face, dragging them back up through his hair.
He looks trapped.
Cornered.
He lets out a harsh, ragged breath. “I’ll get us some water.”
And before I can respond, he swings the bathroom door open with enough force that it hits the wall with a resounding bang.
He storms out.