Текст книги "Tangled Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

I step into my dress, wriggle it up my body, put my arms in the holes, and sweep my hair around to one side. Drake’s now looking at me like the circus let their freak show go somewhere between now and last night. I reach behind me to the base of my back, grab the tied end of the string, and pull it up. The zipper makes that light buzzing sound as it moves up to where I can reach behind me and grab it.

“And that,” I tell him, one eyebrow lifted, reaching behind me to snap the string off, “is how an independent woman puts her dress on.”

“I’m kind of impressed. But what are you gonna do if someone unzips it like…this.” He moves quicker than I do, and I swing my fist toward him as he grabs my zipper and pulls it right down into that awkward part of your back where you can reach it but not move it.

“You total dick!”

He laughs, crawling over the bed to the other side of the room. “Zippers on dresses are better left undone.”

“Not when you have to go outside,” I cry.

Oh, God. Now I’m contorting my arms in ways they aren’t meant to be contorted in to reach this zipper.

Holy crap. I can’t even reach it.

“I cannot believe you did that.”

He pulls his shirt over his head, still laughing at me. “You know you look like a puppy chasing its tail, right?”

“Did you just call me a bitch?”

“If the shoe fits…”

“Then it’s probably going up your ass.”

He runs his tongue across his top lip, grinning, and crawls across the bed again. This time toward me. He grabs the hem of my dress and tugs me back so I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in front of him. His fingers brush across my skin as he carefully moves all of my hair away from the path of the zipper, only to replace his hand with his mouth.

I shiver.

He smiles.

Bastard.

He grazes his nose down my spine to where his fingers are clasping the zipper pull, and every second he’s touching me, tingles are erupting across my skin. He slowly moves the zipper up, each quiet crackle of the teeth coming together preceded by the barest of kisses traveling upward.

“And that,” he murmurs into my ear, “is how independent women with someone to pull up their zipper do it.”

My lips twist to the side, but I turn my face toward his anyway. “Touché, sir.”

He smiles and kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’m going to make coffee. You finish doing whatever else it is you do to turn yourself human.”

“I can’t even be offended by that because I’d imagine I look like I stepped out of The Walking Dead.”

Drake gets off the bed, looks at me, and grimaces. “Noelle, you are the walking dead.”

I throw the pillow at him. He catches it with a bark of laughter and throws it right back at me before turning and leaving me to get ready. I do it in record speed, thankful this time that I did bring some actual face wipes and the character kid hand wipes can stay nice and buried in my purse.

Pretty sure only moms should have those in their purses. I really need to give it to Alison before they get stuck inside my Chucks and forgotten or something.

“Come on,” he says, handing me a travel cup of coffee as soon as I take a step inside the kitchen door. “We have some investigating to do.”

“We’re going to do that now? Like right now? I don’t think I have the shoes for it.” I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and release it with a smack. “Unless three-inch wedge heels are acceptable for that.”

“Your dress isn’t exactly suitable, either, but as long as you’re aware that, if one of us needs to bend over to look at somethin’, it’ll be you, then it’s okay.”

“Are you allowed to perv on me while we work?”

His half grin gives me butterflies. “If not, then I should have been fired several times over by now.”

Oh, boy. This is gonna be a long day.

My family think I’m crazy. More specifically, my brothers.

On the way to Natalie’s house, I called Trent, who told me that he was having his first day off in over a week and he’d tell Silvio to poop on my floor next time I babysit if I tried to make him work.

He won.

Then I called Devin, who agreed to help only because, in the drama of everything yesterday at family dinner, Nonna didn’t corner Amelia—who was coming to her first dinner in weeks because of work—and make her look through her scrapbook cover to cover.

I also called Brody right after, and he agreed to help if I didn’t ask him to go on a date with Melanie until the next favor I need from her.

I doubt I’ll get another favor, but whatever. Desperate times and all that.

So here we are, standing in the hallway of Natalie’s house, and all three guys are staring at me like I’ve grown another head. Even Drake, and he knew from the start.

Damn crowd-pleaser.

“You don’t know what we’re looking for,” Brody surmises, his tone flat. “Are you serious? I could be doing something that’s actually useful right now.”

“This is useful,” I argue. Kinda lamely. “There has to be something here.”

He’s right though. It is pretty useless because we’re searching for a needle in a haystack that might not even exist.

“Noelle,” Devin groans, wiping his hand across his face. “Don’t you think that, if there were, her stalker would have broken in and gotten it by now?”

“Or her murderer, and that’s why Vince was killed?” Brody continues. “If you find anything in either of their houses, I’ll take over all of your babysitting favors for Trent for the rest of the year.”

Yeah. He thinks I’m trying to catch a mole with a fishing rod.

I shrug a shoulder and look around her house, resting my hands on my hips. “You can’t hide everything. If there is something here, there’s no saying it was found if anyone broke in. Maybe that’s why Vince was killed, too. Because they thought Natalie had given it to him.”

“That’s what Nick said,” Drake points out, and my stomach sinks as it hits me—Brody and Trent have convinced him there’s nothing here. “He said Vince had it, whatever it is.”

“There could be more.” My argument is seriously weak right now. “Copies of something. I don’t know, okay? I know there’s something here.”

“So we’re going to spend a whole day searching two houses for ‘something’ from your gut feeling?” Devin raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, I’m going to,” I remedy. “Y’all go on ahead and come up with another solution.”

They all share a glance.

“Have you ever considered that your gut needs a trip to the loony bin?” Brody questions me. “Because it comes up with crazy shit.”

“My gut also solved your last murder while y’all were twirling on your tiptoes like a bunch of freakin’ prima ballerinas.” I pull the plastic gloves I took from Drake before we left out of my purse and put them on.

“Your gut got lucky because you were decorating. We almost had it,” he protests.

“Yeah, like you almost had all the other case information I gave you,” I scoff. “Without me and my team, your police department would still be sitting on their backsides in the briefing room with coffee and stale bagels, tryin’ to figure out who did what and where. Face it. Now you can either help me or go, ’cause I’m lookin’ anyway.”

I turn my back to them and start. I pull out each sofa cushion, sliding my hands down the edges just in case. I come up with twenty-five cents, a gum wrapper, and an old battery. A search of the armchair gives me a sock and another ten cents.

I should probably check my own cushions. With the amount of times I drop change and leave it there, I’ll probably find a hundred bucks down the back of the sofa or something. I turn my attention to the coffee table and the drawers there, ignoring the three sets of eyes still focused on me.

If they don’t wanna help, that’s fine. If I don’t find anything, then that’s fine, too. I want to try. I’d rather try and fail than wait and always wonder.

“Ever think she’s too much like Nonna for her own good?” Brody quietly asks Devin. Not fucking quietly enough.

“You mean like, when she gets an idea in her head, there’s no talkin’ her outta it?”

“Yeah. Then she has the motivation and determination of a colony of rabbits in mating season.”

“I can hear you, you know,” I remind them, moving to the rack of DVDs. I pull them out one by one, opening and closing each one in case something was slipped inside.

“Thorough,” Drake notes.

“Obsessive,” Brody counters. “Although it’s real fun to watch.”

“I can still hear you.” After finishing with the DVDs, I check in and around the entertainment stand.

“How badly is she going to hurt us if we don’t help?” Dev laughs. “And do I have to be here?”

“No,” Drake replies, his attention still on me as I move into the kitchen. “I’m not your superior, so you can do what you want, and I can’t make Brody stay until his shift officially starts at three. The only one who has to stay is me.”

I open what appears to be the pots cabinet. It stretches right back, and I poke my head in to see if there’s anything stuffed down there. That’s where I’d hide something. In that little nook no one can ever get anything in or out of unless it’s a straw.

“You could easily delegate this to her,” Dev laughs again. “You’re only stayin’ ’cause she’s your girlfriend.”

Waitwhatnow?

“Ow! Fuck!” My head collides with the shelf, and I scoot backwards, keeping my head down, before I sit up. Ouch. That really hurt.

“Are you all right?” Drake asks, coming into the kitchen flanked by my brothers.

“Fine,” I lie, rubbing the back of my head. “I misjudged where the shelf ended and space started.”

“More like you heard me say the word ‘girlfriend,’” Dev teases.

“Or I could shut your mouth for you.” I smile sweetly and close the cabinet door.

Drake takes a deep breath and looks at them. “I have to stay because she’s a danger to herself. She’s probably given herself a concussion and she’s only been doing it for fifteen minutes.”

“I have not given myself a concussion.” I hope. “It’s a little knock. People bang their heads all the time.” Just not on cabinet shelves because they’re trying to find…something. “Y’all are distractin’ me with your chitchat. I mean it: Help me or go.”

Drake pulls some gloves from his pockets and snaps them with a sigh. I shoot him a glare as Dev groans and holds his hand out toward Drake.

“I’ll help,” he says with reluctance. “She’ll probably lock herself in a closet or somethin’.”

“Or fall over a roll of toilet paper,” Brody adds, taking a pair from Drake, too.

I smile sweetly, making sure to meet each of their gazes. “Well, aren’t y’all sweet?”

Devin points a latex-clad finger at me. “This is the Italian blood deciding that helping family is more important than going home and having sex with my fiancée. Don’t think I’m bein’ nice.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice,” I return dryly. Too much information, brother. Ew.

“All right,” Drake says, pulling his shoulders back and taking charge.

So much for this being my bright idea. He always has to be the king of every search. Pain in the damn ass.

“Before we dive right in blindly,” he goes on, shooting an amused but fond look my way, “let’s narrow down our options to realistic somethings.”

“Nah. I like my somethings the way most men like women’s legs. Wide open.” I grin. “I’m going upstairs to search. You narrow down your somethings while I go somewhere I can’t hurt myself.”

“You could drown in the bathroom,” Brody offers helpfully.

“Yeah… Or I could flush your head down the toilet. Stay away. I’m dangerous.” I make an X with my fingers before going upstairs as quickly as my shoes will allow me.

The low hum of the guys talking downstairs fills the empty space up here. I’m thankful for it because there’s something incredibly freaky about going into the bedroom of a dead person. It’s not even like I believe in ghosts, so I’m not going to get possessed or something, but ah.

I’ve never liked this part of investigating. Bedrooms are so very personal. From panties and pictures to vibrators.

Her bedroom door is ajar, so I push on it slowly. It creaks, making this all the more ominous. Damn, maybe there is a ghost. That stuff happens in movies, right?

I did not get enough sleep last night. Or enough coffee this morning.

I smack my lips together as I cast my eyes over her bedroom. Cute. White with accents of lilac and light blue. In actuality, there’s nothing special about it. There’s a bed with a headboard, a dresser, a vanity littered with jewelry holders, and a three-door closet with mirrors.

I crouch a little to see if there are any boxes under the bed. Once I see the empty space, I turn my attention to the vanity. She had good taste in jewelry. I can spy several of the new collection from Alex and Ani I’ll neither confirm nor deny that I’ve been adding and removing to my basket for two weeks.

The dresser holds photo after photo, and it feels intrusive and cliché, but if the evidence is a note or photo, then it’s a foolproof place to hide it. Carefully, I lay each framed photo down on top of the dresser and turn the little clasps.

My phone vibrates from its home inside my bra with a text. I secure the back of one photo, stand the frame up, and pull out my phone. As I tap at the screen, it occurs to me that my phone can’t sense my thumb, so I pull my glove off and open the message. I don’t know the number, and I frown at the words.

You’re wasting your time.

Then the bang happens.

Glass shatters as the booming sound of a two gunshots echoes through the air. I clap my hand over my mouth and drop to the floor, crawling around the side of the dresser. I pull my gun from the holster on my thigh with one hand and help myself back up with the other, staying low. The bedroom window has been shot at, a single bullet hole piercing the lower left corner, and despite the pane being covered with cracks, it’s still intact and safely left in the window frame.

The bullet, however, is in the wall, about two inches down from the ceiling.

What kind of an idiot shoots through an upstairs window and expects to fucking hit someone?

Bitch, please. We’re not all LeBron James.

I go downstairs quietly, but the sound of Devin’s hard voice on the phone requesting an ambulance has my heart jumping out of my chest.

That better be a fucking window ambulance he’s calling.

My chest is tight as I get down the last couple of stairs, my gun still in my hand. I follow the sounds of their voices into the study at the front of the house.

My baby brother is sitting against the wall, sweat dripping down his pale face, his hand on his side. Drake pulls his shirt over his head and balls it up to press against him.

I see the blood seeping onto Brody’s light-blue T-shirt before Drake can cover it up. “Brody!”

“I’m fine,” he grinds out, his eyes screwed shut.

“Yeah, all right.” I kneel down next to him and put my gun on the floor. “What happened?”

“We were in here searching. Then the bullets came flying in. One here, one somewhere else,” Drake explains.

“The bedroom,” I explain. “Went straight into the wall. Right after I got a text saying we’re wasting our time.”

Drake’s face hardens as Brody cries out.

“Shh,” I whisper, turning to my baby brother and cupping his face with my hands. “You’re gonna be okay, Brodes. I promise.”

He nods, and tears spring to my eyes. Jesus, I’ve never seen him in this much pain.

“Stay with me. Don’t you dare pass out.” I lightly slap his cheeks, and he forces his eyes open. “Okay. You can’t sleep yet. The ambulance is coming. You’re not allowed to go anywhere.”

He nods again, but this time, it’s much jerkier than before. His fist clenches against the floor, and I touch my forehead to his before dropping a kiss against his clammy skin.

Please, God. If you’re real and you can hear this and you aren’t fed up of me taking your name in vain ten times a day or my nonna’s endless requests, please make sure my baby brother is okay.

And for the first time in my life, sirens are welcome.

The lights flash through the window, and Drake climbs over Brody’s legs without nudging him.

“Hear that, Brodes? The ambulance is here.”

He doesn’t acknowledge my words.

“Brody?”

“Noelle,” Drake whispers, taking my hands from his face as paramedics arrive in the room. “Let them do their job.”

“He isn’t talking,” I whisper hoarsely. “Why isn’t he talking to me?”

Oh God—Brody. The tears spill over my eyes as an angry sadness like nothing I’ve ever felt fills my body. From my head to my toes, I’m torn between sobbing hysterically or getting in a car and driving around to find the motherfucker who shot my brother.

But I’m shaking. Everything. And nothing makes it better. Not Drake’s arms wrapping around me from behind to hold me back or feeling Devin take my hand or seeing the paramedics ease my unconscious and bleeding brother onto a stretcher.

The oxygen mask doesn’t make it better.

Nothing does.

My muscles are so tense and I’m breathing through my tears, but it doesn’t matter because it’s nothing compared to what he’s feeling.

My baby brother.

My baby brother.

My best fucking friend, even above Bek. My tormentor and the little macho guy who always fancied himself my protector, even when I didn’t need protecting.

Brody.

He’s wheeled out. I don’t know how long it’s been. But he’s still not awake. He’s still bleeding. He’s still shot and bleeding and unconscious and completely and utterly defenseless.

Defenseless.

Something he’s never been.

I cover my face with my face, and my knees buckle. I’d go down if it weren’t for Drake’s already steady hold on me. He grips me tighter and turns me into him, and my face buries into his chest, and the fear inside me breaks free.

Hold a gun to my face and I won’t tremble. Put your finger on the trigger and I won’t run. Shoot me and I won’t cry.

But my brother? My family?

No. Fuck. No.

I push away from Drake and press my palms against my cheeks, begging the tears to stop. Drake refuses to let me go, instead touching my back. I’m thankful because my legs are weak. They’re Jell-O and ready to break at any point, but instead of letting them go, I find my brother’s eyes.

Devin looks how I feel. His cheeks are red, and even he has the glint of a tear in his eye. But his fists are clenched, his shoulders drawn back, his jaw tight. Behind those tears hovering in his dark eyes is anger. Just anger. The kind of anger any sane person would run from.

It doesn’t scare me.

I feel it too.

I feel that inhuman anger that makes you see everything with a tinge of red, that makes you want to act on your impulses no matter the consequences.

The kind of anger that would make murder possible.

After all, la famiglia è tutto. Family is everything.

Fuck with me. Don’t fuck with my family.

And certainly not my little brother.

“I’m calling Dad,” Dev manages to croak out. He storms out of the room as the first police car pulls up outside.

“Noelle,” Drake says quietly, stepping in front of me. “We ain’t goin’ near Vince’s. Whatever this is, it’s gonna have to find us, cupcake. No way am I riskin’ anyone else gettin’ hurt.”

“I know. I wasn’t even thinkin’ of it.”

“Sweetheart.” He whispers it, touching the side of my face and bringing my eyes to his. “He’ll be okay. He’s one of the three toughest guys I know, and all of them have the same surname.”

“I know. But that’s...Brody,” I finish lamely. “I couldn’t protect him. I should protect him.”

Which is exactly why Dev is pissed the hell off, too.

“Hey, no. Hey.” He forces my eyes back to his. “No. No guilt. I’ll take you to the hospital and you can meet your family there.”

“I’ll go later. When I know he’s okay.” I blow out a long, quiet breath. “This... Finding out who did this is important. I have a crazy grandmother who will want to know their address within the next thirty minutes so she can dish out some good ol’ revenge, Italian-style.”

“You need to be with your family.”

“No.” This time, I meet his eyes with steely determination. “I need to find out who did this, because this shit just got fuckin’ personal.”

“Why are you here?”

I look up at Bek, a deep breath filling my lungs. “Because I can’t be at that hospital. I can’t sit there in those goddamn stale, white rooms and wait to hear what’s wrong with my brother.”

“So, you’d rather be here, at seven p.m., waiting for a phonecall?”

Slowly, I nod. I would be. Not because I don’t love my brother or care. I do. God, I’ve cried four times this afternoon since Drake reluctantly brought me here. That was before he drove to his house, brought my car to me, then walked back to get his car again.

It’s easier to be here and focus on work. Focus on this goddamn something that got my brother hurt—the same something that makes me want to drive out to Nick’s studio and pin his sorry-son-of-a-bitch ass against the wall until he spills exactly what could lead to us solving this murder.

I wish I could be at the hospital. I wish I could be there, holding their hands, waiting like they are, but I know that, the second Brody wakes up—if he wakes up from the surgery they took him into five hours ago—he’d look at me and ask me what the hell I was doing at the hospital and didn’t I have shoes to buy?

Although I do agree. It’s strange that I’m not there. I’ve done nothing but flick through the same pages and try to drink the same cold coffee for the last two and a half hours. My phone is on ring for the first time in weeks, and it’s plugged into a charger and lying screen up on my desk.

Every time it lights up, my heart stops.

I should be at the hospital. I should be waiting there. I should know exactly what’s happening and where everyone is and how he is.

But I still think he’d yell at me and ask me why I’m hanging around there.

So this... This isn’t for me. These lame hours I’m spending in limbo, waiting for a word from my family, are for him. Every useless page flip and mouse click and lift of a mug of cold coffee.

It’s easier.

I have to keep repeating that. It’s easier. I have to keep telling myself that because then I might believe it. I might believe that it really is easier to be miles away from him when he’s suffering so badly and fighting so hard to wake up.

I have to tell myself that, too. That he’s fighting to wake up. That he’s fighting for everything, because I don’t know where that bullet hit. It could have skimmed arteries or pierced his major organs.

I. Don’t. Know.

“Noelle!” Bek snaps. “You need to go there. Let me drive you to the hospital.”

I shake my head and bury my face in my hands. “I have to figure this out, Bek. I have to make this right. I have to find who did this to Brody and Natalie and Vince.”

“Tomorrow,” she urges me, slamming her fist onto my desk. “They’ll still be here tomorrow. The white Cadillac the neighbors said they saw was found in the woods outside of town an hour ago. The cops are running DNA testing on it and hoping the plate will trigger the minds of some neighbors. There’s nothing you can do sitting here and staring into space.”

I’ve never wanted Drake to storm into my office more than I do right in this second.

But he doesn’t.

“Okay,” I whisper, giving in. “Take me.”

Bek walks around my desk and takes my hands, helping me up. I feel completely exhausted and lame. There isn’t a part of me not burning with worry for Brody.

I rub my hand down my face in an effort to wake myself up before we reach the top of the stairs. Bek, being the best friend ever, already brought me flat shoes so I don’t have to worry about takking a sleepy tumble down the stairs and into her car.

“Oh, here’s your mail from today. This one was delivered late.” She stops us by Grecia’s office. “I told her I’d give it to you before I sent her home,” she explains, handing me the pile.

“This one?” I point to the letter on top with hand-scrawled letters.

“Yeah. Maybe around four? But I told her not to disturb you. I thought you were sleeping.”

I smile, but it’s weak. No, around then, I was picturing my brother’s pain-stricken face as he realized what had happened to him.

“Let’s go.” Bek wraps her arm around my shoulders, my purse somehow magically slung over her other arm, and guides me outside.

My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely turn the key. I have no idea how I’ve lasted ten hours since Brody was shot.

To be fair, I think I’ve spent eight of them in shock.

Angry shock, albeit, but still shock.

I climb into her car and drop the tied-up mail bundle into my purse when she hands me it. Then I pull out my phone, which has somehow made its way into it, and bring up Drake’s name. I hit message.

Going to the hospital... I text.

His reply is quick. Let me know. How you doing?

Okay, and nope, I reply. That’s how I feel right now. No. Just no.

Talk to you later, cupcake.

I sigh, rest my head back on the headrest, and close my eyes.

“Noelle?” Bek says my name, softly shaking my arm.

“I’m awake.” I pinch the top of my nose and blink harshly when I open my eyes. “Are we here?”

She smiles. “Yeah, and we aren’t the only ones.”

I pull my eyebrows together in a frown, but she doesn’t elaborate as she gets out of the car. The only damn elaboration is the growth in her smile.

I’m glad she can smile.

She takes my hand and tugs me toward the entrance. A lone figure is standing by the doors, their face initially obscured by the brightness of the lights streaming out from the hospital. It only takes a few steps before I realize it though.

“Drake?” I whisper, covering my mouth with my hand.

“Yep,” Bek replies, squeezing the hand still clasped in hers. “He called me when you were sleeping. I love you, Noelle, but I ain’t gonna hug your fiesty ass all damn night. Or let you cry on me, for that matter. This shirt was expensive.”

My best friend really is the best.

I hug her tight. “I hate how well you know me.”

“No you don’t. You love it, you silly bitch.”

That smile I didn’t think I could raise? Yeah. It doesn’t matter how badly you’re hurting inside as long as you have the people who are your rock-hard pillars of strength around you.

I let Bek go and turn to Drake. He holds his hands out to his sides in a well? motion, and I take the few steps between us, running, and all but throw myself at him. My arms tangle around his neck, and his wrap around me so tight that I can barely breathe as I bury my face into his neck.

“Thank you,” I whisper against him.

“He’s important to you. He’s important to me. You’re important to me. Like I wouldn’t be here,” he rumbles back against the side of my head, kissing it when he finishes speaking. “He’s on the sixth floor and about to come out of surgery, so you’ll know within fifteen minutes how he is.”

I pull back, taking a breath so deep that I feel the oxygen spilling right down to my toes. “We will? How do you know?”

Drake nods. Then, with a slight smile, he pulls his something out of his pocket, flips it open, and taps the gold badge exposed to me. “This was my VIP ticket tonight.”

“Of course.” I smile and look down before extracting myself from his arms to look at Bek. “Coming?” I ask her, warmth flooding me as Drake slips his fingers through mine and squeezes.

“It’s okay,” Bek replies, but I can see the worry in her eyes. She isn’t fooling me.

“Come,” I demand, holding my free hand out to her, my purse on that shoulder. “Now.”

“Yes, boss.” She tries for another smile, but it’s a pathetic attempt at one.

She does, however, take my hand, tightly curling her fingers around mine. The three of us, with Drake slightly in the lead, enter the hospital, and I look down so the bright lights don’t blind me. I wouldn’t put it past this place, you know.

Drake lightly squeezes my hand as the elevator doors open, and we step in after everyone has emptied it. I can’t remember the last time I felt this weak, honestly. Not knowing how Brody is really is a hole inside me, and the tears lingering behind my eyes aren’t playing any games. If they make their way to the front, they’re gonna go, and I’m gonna lose it. I’m hoping, and maybe even somewhere deep down I’m praying, that I won’t have to.

Floor six is intensive care.

Every part of me tenses.

The man in front of me is as powerful as ever, though, as he rings the buzzer to get in and explains who we are. The doors are clicked open, but it does nothing for my tightly wound stomach as the stench of sterility and illness winds its way around me.

“This way.” Drake leads me straight down the hall.

I tug Bek after me. Her hand is covering her mouth, and I wish I could do the same. Instead, I simply look down, burying my face as far into my shoulder as I can. I’ve never been this terrified in my life. I’ve never felt such acute fear rocking its way through my bloodstream unapologetically the way it is right now.

I really, really hate hospitals.

We stop outside a room with a plaque on the door marking it Family Waiting Area.

Awesome. We have to wait with another family with their own pain. Because, with the size of ours, there won’t be enough.

Drake pushes the door open, and I’m thankful for his strength. For everything I am, I don’t even think I can twitch a finger knowing that knowledge is imminent.

The room is empty except for my family.

Mom is sitting in the corner, her head on Trent’s shoulder. Devin is the other side of her, his arm looped through hers, but his head is resting back against the wall as he stares at the ceiling. Trent is leaning against Mom, his hand clasped in hers. His other is curled around Alison’s thigh. The absence of the kids tells me that they dropped them by her parents’ before they came here.

Nonna is sitting in front of the window next to Dad. Both of them are on their knees, knelt up, their hands held together in front of them. Even as the slowly setting sun sends cascading waves of orange and red over their faces, they look into it, their noses tilted up, their eyes closed. Nonna’s lips are moving quickly, but her words are completely silent. Her rosary beads are hooked over her thumb, and she rubs them gently, in her own world.

I’d bet she’s been there for hours. Praying. Believing. Begging.

Guilt hits me at the way they’ve been here, vigiliantly, while I’ve been hiding.

That guilt drives me to let go of both Drake and Bekah, walk across the room, and kneel next to Nonna. She squeezes my knee, refusing to let go of her rosary, and still speaking. Now, I’m so close that I can hear her, and it’s all in Italian. Her mother tongue has always been her own source of strength, and I breathe in deeply, close my hands in front of me, and shut my eyes like she has, just to listen to her.