SIX
HAYDEN
BOSTON
DECEMBER
"Mr. Sawyer?"
I've been staring at the wall for the past hour, reading the same bullshit poster.
Your health is our priority!
I've been motionless since Nurse Robby left, after I numbly handed him the completed tablet with Emerald’s information.
Emerald Jean Sawyer. Her birthday is June 17. She's allergic to penicillin. She's never broken a bone before—at least not before tonight. No surgeries, no medications. I'm her emergency contact.
"Mr. Sawyer?"
The voice calls again, firmer this time, and I turn to see a man and woman standing in the doorway of the private waiting room.
The woman steps forward. "I'm Detective Anthony. This is Detective Ramirez. Could we speak to you for a few moments?"
Detectives.
Right, because my wife was the victim of a crime.
I nod, and they step further into the room with light footsteps, like I'm a wild animal they're trying not to spook. Detective Anthony sits next to me, while Detective Ramirez stands by the door, arms crossed over his chest.
"I want to start by saying how sorry I am that this happened," Detective Anthony says, dark eyes soft.
I don't say anything, because I'm not quite sure what the appropriate response is— thank you?
It doesn't seem she's expecting a response because she continues on, "We've already spoken to DeMar Simmons and Rick Fox—"
My stomach tightens at Rick's name, my back muscles tensing as I distinctly remember him telling me all good.
Why would he say that if he didn’t know for sure?
"They've already helped clear you—we usually suspect romantic partners in incidents like this, it's not personal," she quickly adds at my alarmed look, horrified nausea churning in my gut at the thought of putting my hands on my wife.
You didn't swing the fists, but this is your fault.
"And we have footage of the attack."
I blink, my blood running cold.
"It was an attack?"
I don't exactly need the confirmation. It's clear as day that someone brutalized and beat my wife.
"Yes,” Detective Anthony says.
"You watched it?"
The detectives share a look before Detective Anthony responds. "We've seen it."
The fact that footage of my wife's assault exists makes me sick to my stomach. I clench my teeth against the churning in my gut, breathing deeply through my nose and out my mouth.
"From the looks of it," Detective Anthony continues, "He was walking near the exit, saw her, and attacked her until she was unconscious.”
I flinch, but motion for her to keep going.
“He dragged her to where you found her, and ran. The snow covered up his tracks, and the storm looks like it's not going to let up for a couple of days,” she adds quickly. “We have all hands on deck looking for him."
It's the weirdest feeling, like I'm not completely here.
Emerald was followed.
Attacked.
Beaten.
Dragged.
Left out in the cold.
And my words pushed her out there .
If I hadn't said what I did...
"I want to see it."
Detective Ramirez shakes his head. "We usually don't—"
"I need to see it," I stress, my voice louder than I intended. I will see what this animal did to my wife. "I need to see it."
Every hit to her will be repaid. Tenfold.
The detectives share a look, communicating without words, before Detective Ramirez nods toward the door. This makes Detective Anthony reach into her pocket and hand me a small white card—her card.
Detective Aisha Anthony . With her number and extension, and the police precinct's address.
"Give me a call when your wife is stable," Detective Anthony says, her voice sympathetic. "We'd like to speak to her when we can and see if she can remember anything—but only when she's feeling okay."
I nod, pocketing the card.
"I am so sorry this happened to your wife, Mr. Sawyer," Detective Ramirez says then. His dark brown eyes read only empathy, but his clenched fists and the ring on his finger show me he understands. "We are going to do everything we can to catch this monster."
They can try .
He won't make it to a courtroom.
I don't tell them that, though. I don't want platitudes about the justice system or about the right to a fair trial.
I want blood.
So, with all the strength I can muster, I give them a tight smile and grind out.
"Thank you."
After the detectives leave, I know that I cannot wait any longer. My fingers find the familiar contact, saved under my favorites along with Emerald, Tim, and Ruby. It rings twice before it’s picked up.
“Hello?”
“Mom,” I croak. “It’s Hayden.”
“Hayden, honey,” Linda yawns, reminding me that it’s half-past midnight and she was probably asleep. Emerald’s mom is a school nurse for their local elementary school and needs to be up early. “Is everything okay?”
I inhale a choppy breath.
“It’s Emerald...” My voice breaks on her name. “I need you guys to come to Boston.”
There’s a long pause before, “Emerald?”
She sounds fully awake right now, rustling in the background like she’s tossing off the covers and jumping out of bed.
“Tim, wake up—Hayden, what happened? Is she okay?”
“No. Mom, Emerald was...” I hitch a sob and clench my hand into a fist. “Emerald was attacked after the game. We’re at the hospital.”
There’s another long pause before I hear more rustling, doors opening, as well as the low, sleep-roughened voice of Emerald’s dad.
“Attacked?” Her voice is breathless and distraught. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. “Oh, my God. Hayden, is she alive?”
“Yes!” I’m quick to assure her. “Yes, she’s alive. The doctors are working on her now.”
“Tim, call Ruby—” Linda says, Tim saying something I can’t catch. Linda’s voice sounds far away now, like she put the phone down on a surface. I hear some clattering and a zip, “Hayden, what happened? How did she get attacked? Were you with her?”
“No, mom. I wasn’t with her,” I admit shamefully, my jaw clenched. “I’ll explain more when you get here—just please—use my account to buy the first flight you can—I’ll send you the information. The very first flight, I don’t care how much it costs—please, just get here—”
“Hayden, breathe,” Linda cuts me off with a gentle voice. I don’t deserve gentleness right now. This is my fault. This is all my fault. I know it is. This happened because I pushed her out the door with my temper.
“Dad, Ruby, and I will be out there as soon as we can. Okay? You text me with updates. I mean, any little update. In the meantime, stay with my baby girl,” Linda says, her strong voice now breaking. “Take care of her, Hayden.”
“I will, Mom,” I tell her, my voice gravel-thick. “I promise.”
“I love you, son,” Linda says, her voice so soft like she’s trying to comfort me. “We’ll see you soon.”
My eyes squeeze shut as Linda ends the call, two more tears escaping down my cheeks. Emerald was the first person to ever tell me that she loved me. It felt strange, as if my body were almost rejecting the words.
And that’s just Emerald. If I ran downstairs for the mail, took out the trash, or went for coffee, she told me she loved me. She needed you to know—so you'd never doubt it.
I had grown up in an abundance. My dad’s businesses were incredibly successful, and I never wanted for anything materially. If I wanted a new toy, new clothes, a gaming console, a television, or anything I could think of, I bought it.
But my parents barely existed in the same room together—my mom was always jetsetting, and my dad was keeping girlfriends in other cities. As wrong as it felt, it was just normal to me. Most of my friends' parents were the same.
Then I went home to meet Emerald’s family, the first Christmas we spent together freshman year, and I saw the example she was given growing up in a family that lacked abundance in everything but love.
Her father and mother loved each other deeply and openly. When Linda was in the room, Tim barely took his eyes from her. He would go to her, press a kiss to her head, cheeks, and lips. Emerald and Ruby didn’t even flinch, like it was normal for your parents to love each other.
As I watched Linda and Tim together, I realized what I wanted.
I wanted that. With Emerald. To love her like that, to take care of her like Tim took care of Linda, to be so unashamedly in love that it makes other people want it too.
For a while, I had it.
Do I still have it now?
“Knock-knock.”
My body goes rigid at the voice. Rick is standing in the doorway, smiling and holding his cellphone. He quickly taps something and walks over, holding two coffees.
He stopped for coffee.
My wife is in the hospital, and he stopped for coffee.
Emerald is less important than a cup of coffee.
“Rick—”
“Already spoke to the cops, told them you were with us when—uh... it happened,” Rick says, sitting down next to me and grimacing as he looks around the room. He hands me the coffee, but when I don’t take it, he just places it on the table in front of us.
He stopped for coffee.
“I can’t believe this,” Rick shakes his head, blowing out a breath. “I know these fans were bloodthirsty, but holy hell.”
My head swings in his direction. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s all over Twitter.”
Rick turns his phone toward me, showing me a tweet from LFB Sports News .
I narrow my eyes. My dyslexia isn’t cured, never will be, but my speed has gotten better over the years. I still take my time reading every single word, letting each one sink into my chest.
brEAKING: Sources confirm the wife of Bullies star Hayden Sawyer was the victim of a violent assault following the game. She was transported to Boston Trauma and is reportedly receiving treatment. No official statement yet from Sawyer or team officials. More details as this develops.
Attached is a picture of Emerald and me taken after my first game last year. We’re outside the locker rooms, I’m in my full hockey gear, and she’s wearing my jersey with a bright smile on her face.
I remember it vividly. I had just rushed back to kiss her after our dominating win. She had told me she was so proud of me.