20. Tom
— ? —
Tom
I wake up saying her name.
“Carrie.”
The hospital room swims into focus, white walls, beeping machines, the sharp smell of antiseptic that I’ve come to hate. My arm throbs with a pain that goes deeper than skin, deeper than muscle, all the way down to the bone. The burns. Right. The fire. The cabin.
Carrie.
I turn my head, expecting to see her in the chair beside my bed. The chair where she’s been every time I’ve woken up. The chair where she pressed my hand to her belly and told me we were having a baby.
The chair is empty.
“Carrie?” My voice comes out hoarse. Broken. I try to sit up, and the pain nearly sends me back under. “Carrie!”
A nurse appears in the doorway. Middle-aged, tired eyes, a face that’s seen too much suffering to be surprised by anything.
“Mr. Donnelly, you need to stay calm.”
“Where is she? Where’s Carrie?”
“The woman who was here?” The nurse checks her clipboard. “She left a few hours ago. Stepped outside for some air, I think. She hasn’t come back.”
Don’t leave this room. Promise me.
She promised. Carrie promised she wouldn’t leave, and she keeps her promises. Unless someone stopped her. Unless.
My phone.
I fumble for the nightstand, nearly knocking over the water pitcher in my haste. My phone is there, plugged into a charger someone must have brought from home. The screen lights up when I touch it.
Seventeen missed calls. Twelve text messages. And one that makes my blood run cold.
Unknown number: Come alone. No cops. Or I start with the baby.
Below it, a photo.
Carrie. Her face bruised, her eyes wide with terror, her hands pressed protectively over her belly. The background is nondescript, a cheap bedspread, wood-paneled walls, a motel that rents by the hour and doesn’t ask questions.
Everything goes white.
For a moment I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything except stare at that picture, at the woman I love, hurt and scared and carrying my child, and feel a dark and terrible thing rising up inside me.
Ulises.
My brother. My own flesh and blood. The person I grew up with, fought with, tried so hard to love despite everything he was. He took her. He has her somewhere, and he’s threatening our baby, and I’m lying in a hospital bed, a useless piece of-
I rip out the IV.
The nurse rushes forward. “Mr. Donnelly! You can’t.”
“I’m leaving.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the wave of dizziness that washes over me. “Where are my clothes?”
“Sir, you’ve just had surgery. The burns on your arm are severe. If you leave now.”
“I don’t care.” I’m already on my feet, already pulling on the jeans someone left folded on the visitor’s chair. My shirt is ruined, burned, probably, so I grab the hoodie draped over the back of the chair instead. “The woman I love is pregnant. My brother has her. I’m leaving.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“You can’t stop me.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then her expression shifts, recognition, maybe, or understanding.
“At least let me call security. Let me.”
“Call the police.” I shove my feet into my boots, not bothering with the laces. “Tell them Ulises Donnelly has kidnapped a woman. Tell them he’s threatening to hurt her. Tell them.” My voice breaks. “Tell them he has my family.”
I push past her into the hallway. My arm screams with every movement, the bandages pulling against raw skin, but I don’t slow down. I can’t slow down. Every second I waste is a second Carrie is alone with him.
The elevator takes too long. I take the stairs instead, two at a time, my burned arm cradled against my chest. By the time I reach the parking garage, I’m sweating and shaking and seeing spots at the edges of my vision.
I call 911 first.
“I need to report a kidnapping.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “Ulises Donnelly. He has a woman named Carrie Donnelly, the woman I love. I have a text with a photo showing she’s been hurt. I don’t know where they are, but I’m going to find out. Send someone.”
“Sir, can you stay on the line.”
I hang up. I’ll give them what they need, but I’m not waiting for them to do their jobs. Not when Carrie’s life is on the line.
My next call is to Reyes.
“Tom.” His voice is sharp with worry. “What the hell is going on? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“Ulises took Carrie. I need you to find her.”
Silence. Then: “Jesus Christ. Okay. Give me a second.”
I hear typing in the background. The beep of computers doing things I don’t understand. I unlock my truck and climb inside, fumbling with the keys, my bandaged arm making everything twice as hard as it should be.
“Got it.” Reyes’s voice is grim. “His phone pinged off a tower about forty minutes ago. Highway motel off Route 9. The Pinewood Inn. You know it?”
“I can find it.”
“Tom, listen to me. He’s unstable. Whatever he’s planning.”
“I know.”
“The cops are on their way. You should wait.”
“I’m not waiting.” I start the engine. The pain in my arm flares so bright I nearly black out, but I force myself to breathe through it. “Send me the address. I’m going.”
“Tom.”
“He has my family, Reyes. He has the woman I love and the baby I didn’t think I’d ever have. I’m not waiting for anyone.”
I hang up before he can argue.
The drive is forty minutes. I make it in thirty.
Every mile is agony. My arm throbs in time with my heartbeat, the burns screaming every time I have to turn the wheel. The pain medication must be wearing off, because by the time I hit the highway, I’m gritting my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack.
But I don’t slow down.
I can’t slow down.
Carrie.
I keep seeing her face in that photo. The fear in her eyes. The bruise on her cheek. The way her hands were pressed to her belly, protecting the baby even when she couldn’t protect herself.
Our baby.
I didn’t expect it to work. When I made that offer, when I knelt on the floor of my workshop and told her I’d give her a child, I didn’t actually believe it would happen.
She’d told me about the fertility treatments, the failed IVF, the doctors who said her chances were slim.
I said the words because I meant them, because I wanted to give her the one thing Ulises never could, but I didn’t think.
I didn’t think I’d actually be a father.
And now she’s out there somewhere, carrying my daughter or my son, and my brother has her, and if I don’t get there in time.
Don’t think about that. Just drive.
The motel appears in my headlights.
Two floors of shut doors and dead neon, the lot nearly empty, the office black. He picked it because no one here looks twice, because no one here remembers a face.
I kill the engine and scan the building. Most of the windows are dark, but there’s one on the ground floor, Room 12, according to the faded numbers on the door, where a shadow moves behind the curtain.
There.
I get out of the truck. The night air is cold against my skin, sharp in my lungs. My arm is on fire, but I barely notice anymore. The pain has become background noise, irrelevant compared to what’s waiting behind that door.
The approach is slow. Quiet. Voices carry from inside, Ulises’s slurred words, Carrie’s softer responses. She’s alive. She’s still alive.
I’m coming, Carrie.
I take a breath.
And I kick the door in.