Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Wade
“Where the hell is she?”
I pace across the living room and try to call her again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Maybe she’s just enjoying a night with her grandfather. But even though that’s a logical thought, I know it’s not true.
My gut tells me it’s bullshit.
Worry bleeds into anger because I don’t know what to do. She said she would call when she left, and she expected that to be two hours ago.
I know Dara. She would’ve at least texted me if things were running late because she knows I would worry.
What the fuck?
I should’ve made her let me go with her. It would’ve made me a dick, but I wouldn’t be in this situation now.
Anger builds, bordering on rage, because I have no one to call. Her friend Rusti? I don’t even know her last name.
She doesn’t have anyone else either.
That realization hits me like a semitruck.
I pace back and forth and make a decision. If she doesn’t check in with me in twenty minutes, at the top of the hour, I’m calling Curt.
Fuck it.
If she wants to be pissed, she can be pissed. I ran out of fucks an hour ago.
I should’ve gone with her.
I consider calling my mother and getting advice from a woman’s perspective. I even go as far as considering calling Holt and listening to him babble about married life—anything to get my mind off this chill that’s settled in my soul.
My feet stop walking.
A cold sweat breaks across my skin as a memory forces its way into my brain.
“Is this Wade Mason?” the woman on the other end of the phone asks.
“Yes.”
“We need you to come to the hospital. It’s urgent.”
I know it’s just a memory. It comes back a lot this time of year. That’s all it is. It’s just a memory.
I press her name on my phone again.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Click!
“Hello?” I ask.
“Hello.”
The voice answering me is male. Not Dara.
I pull the phone away from my face and check her number. It’s correct.
“Who is this?” I ask.
Whoever is on the other end is breathing heavily.
I close my eyes and fight a head-to-toe chill that snakes through my body. I think I’m going to be sick.
“First, may I ask who this is?” he asks.
“This is Wade Mason. Who the fuck is this, and why are you answering my girlfriend’s phone?”
He breathes into the line. “Sir, this is Officer Wastell with the Savannah Police Department. I regret to inform you that there’s been an accident.”
Oh, fuck.
No.
No. Please, no.
The bottom of my world drops out.
I fall to my knees on the hardwood.
No. This isn’t happening.
This can’t be fucking happening.
My hand trembles as fear dumps over me like a cold bucket of water.
I can’t breathe.
“Is she all right?” I ask. “Tell me she’s alright!”
God, she has to be all right. Let her be all right.
Tears prick my eyes as I climb back to my feet.
I have to get to her. I need to see her. I need to have her in my arms.
God, she has to be all right.
“Where is she?” I bark, grabbing my keys off the counter and storming into my garage. “Where is Dara?”
“She’s been transported to Savannah Methodist, sir. I can’t give you any more information than that.”
I end the call and start my car. The tires squeal as I rip down the driveway to get to her.
To get to Dara.
To get to my lady.
I should’ve gone with her. I should’ve protected her. Why can I never protect the people in my life I lo—I …
Please, God, let her be all right.
Don’t do this to me again.
I need her to be okay.
I need her.
I won’t make it this time.