Prologue #2
My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest, hammering against my ribs like it were trying to escape.
My breath came in short, sharp gasps that burned my throat and lungs.
The evening air was cool, almost cold, but I was sweating, my hands clammy, my whole body vibrating with terror.
My legs felt weak and unsteady beneath me, but I pushed forward anyway, weaving between the clusters of neighbors who had gathered on their porches and front lawns, their faces pale and shocked in the flashing lights.
Some of them called out to me. I thought they did, anyway, but I couldn’t hear them.
I couldn’t hear anything except the roar of panic in my head and the slap of my shoes against the pavement as I ran toward whatever nightmare was waiting for me up ahead.
My mind raced with memories of his laugh, his stubborn grin—anything to keep from imagining the worst. John was more than just my boyfriend; he was my anchor, and everything inside me screamed for him to be safe.
Please. Please let him be okay. Please.
I rounded the corner and stopped dead. My legs felt numb, rooted to the spot, as if refusing to carry me closer to whatever waited ahead.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe—my mind refused to accept what my eyes saw.
Then panic surged through me, overwhelming any hope I had left, and I clung desperately to the memory of John’s laughter echoing in this place, a sound now swallowed by silence and smoke.
The clubhouse looked like a war zone. No, worse than that.
It looked like the aftermath of a massacre—like something I had seen unfolding on the news in some distant country, not here, not in our town.
The crunch of glass beneath my shoes echoed in my ears, each step a reminder of how everything had changed.
The acrid scent of gunpowder and blood stung my nostrils, mingling with smoke drifting from somewhere inside.
I remembered the last time we laughed together in that room, and now it was filled with silence and devastation.
The front windows were shattered, glass glittering on the pavement like diamonds scattered across black asphalt.
With each uneven step, I felt the crunch and slip beneath my soles, amplifying my sense of unreality.
Bullet holes pocked the walls in irregular patterns, clustered in some places, scattered in others, telling a story I didn’t want to read.
The door hung crooked on its hinges, splintered wood showing where it had been kicked in or blown open.
Smoke drifted from somewhere inside, thin and acrid, curling out through the broken windows and the damaged doorway, and I could smell it even from where I stood—gunpowder and blood, and something burning, perhaps upholstery or carpet.
Somewhere amid the chaos, I remembered how John had once patched that door after a storm, laughing at his own handiwork. Now, it was ruined beyond repair.
There were bodies. I froze, unable to move forward, as the horror settled in my bones.
Oh God, there are bodies.
My mouth went dry, my chest tightened, and grief threatened to swallow me whole.
Paramedics were loading them onto stretchers, some covered with white sheets, some with medics working frantically over them, shouting instructions, pumping chests, holding IV bags high.
The shouts and urgent voices blurred together, distant yet piercing, and I couldn’t tell, couldn’t see which ones were still alive, which ones still had a chance.
My eyes scanned desperately, searching for familiar faces, for any sign of movement, for anything that would tell me who had made it and who hadn’t.
I remembered John’s stubborn grin, his hand warm in mine—now, I searched for that face among the chaos and prayed for a miracle.
“Miss, you need to stay back.” A police officer stepped in front of me, hand raised. “This is an active crime scene.” The authority in his voice barely registered, lost beneath the pounding of my heart and the memories crowding my mind.
“My—” I choked on the word. “My boyfriend. He’s—he’s in the club. I need to know if he’s—” My voice sounded strange to my own ears, thin and desperate, echoing the fear that had overtaken me. I remembered how John once comforted me after a nightmare; now, I was living one.
“Ma’am, I understand, but you need to stay behind the line. We’ll have information for families soon.” The officer’s words were gentle, but they crashed against the panic growing inside me, unable to soothe or stop it.
“I need to know now!” My voice broke into a sob. “Please. Please, I just need to see.” The desperation in my plea was raw, tearing through the last threads of composure I had left.
Another stretcher came out. My stomach twisted, my hands trembling uncontrollably, as I waited for the worst.
White sheet. Completely covered. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint wail of sirens and the distant cries of bystanders.
I made a sound I didn’t recognize. Something animalistic and broken.
My knees buckled. The officer caught my arm, steadying me, but I couldn’t look away from the stretcher.
From the shape under the sheet. From the blood seeping through the white fabric.
I remembered the warmth of John’s embrace, and now I was left with nothing but dread and the cold bite of loss.
No. No, please, not John. Please, not John.
“Miss, you need to calm down.” Even as the officer tried to help, terror clawed at me, my breaths shallow and ragged.
“Is he alive?” I grabbed the officer’s arm, desperate. “John Smith. Is he? Did he?” My words tumbled out, barely coherent, the fear in my chest eclipsing everything else. Grief, disbelief, and hope collided inside me, tearing at my soul.
“I don’t have that information. You need to...” The officer’s words blurred, lost in the roaring tide of anguish and fear inside me. I tried to remember John’s smile, tried to hold onto something real, but I was drowning in uncertainty.
Another stretcher emerged, wheels clattering against cracked pavement.
Another body. This one exposed, face slack and unfamiliar, the chest soaked red—so much blood.
Medics pressed and counted, murmuring numbers, but his eyes stared past them, wide and empty.
I wanted to look away. I couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.
My hands trembled against my sides, cold and useless.
I thought of John’s hands—the way he’d warmed mine beneath the covers, just three weeks ago, whispering, “Everything’s okay. ” But nothing was okay now.
I knew. I knew he was gone. How many had fallen?
How many bodies were still inside, still bleeding, still dying?
Was John one of them? Was he lying somewhere, gasping for breath, while I stood here—helpless, terrified, clutching the secret inside me he would never know?
My mind spun, looping back to the pink test on the bathroom counter and his sleepy smile.
What if—what if I never got to tell him? What if all I had left were memories?
I lunged forward, desperate, and tried to push past the officer.
He blocked me, voice hardening. “Ma’am, I will have you removed if you don’t step back.
” The words echoed, but behind them was chaos—a crowd pressed tight, murmurs rising and falling, the distant thrum of sirens weaving through the night.
Blue lights flickered. Radios crackled. Somewhere behind me, a woman sobbed; somewhere, a child whimpered.
Every sound seemed sharp, urgent, unreal.
Sweat prickled down my spine. I pressed my palm to my stomach, feeling a faint flutter, a hope I couldn’t name.
Time warped. Minutes collapsed into hours, or maybe only seconds. Sirens rose and fell. More stretchers appeared, each one a new horror, a new possibility. I scanned every face, every limp form—searching, praying. Praying not to find John. Praying to find him.
And then I heard it. A paramedic, talking to a police officer near one of the ambulances.
“—total massacre. Complete bloodbath. Vasquez Cartel came in heavy, real heavy. They had automatic weapons, body armor, the whole nine yards. Most of the officers are dead. I’m talking at least a dozen confirmed KIA, maybe more.
We’ve got maybe two, three survivors, but they’re critical.
Gunshot wounds to the chest and abdomen.
EMTs are working on them now, but I don’t know if they’re gonna make it. It’s bad. Real bad.”
Most of the officers are dead.
My world tilted.
John was an officer. Sergeant at Arms.
Most of the officers are dead.
My thoughts circled, wild and frantic: Most of the officers are dead.
Most of the officers are dead. Most of the officers are dead.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but stand there and feel my entire world crumble into ash.
I couldn’t hear anything except the roaring in my ears and the paramedic’s words echoing over and over.
Most of the officers are dead.
Dead.
Dead.
I pressed my hand to my stomach.
Our baby.
John would never know. He would never know that I was pregnant. He would never meet his child. He would never hold them or see them smile or hear them laugh.
He was gone.
And I was alone.
Just hours ago, I was at the scene. Now, somehow, I was home—standing in the middle of my living room, my hands trembling so badly I pressed them to my thighs to keep from shaking.
I couldn’t recall the drive, or the sound of my keys turning in the lock.
My mind was a blur, but the sharp scent of the lemon oil I always used on the coffee table grounded me, and I found myself staring at nothing, chest tight with the memory of the world unraveling.