Page 118 of Trusting You

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s been an accident.”

I jump up, the chair toppling to the ground behind me. “What kind of accident?”

“Carter, you okay, honey?” Pierce is rushing out from behind the counter, but I barely see him through the watery film in my eyes.

“Your husband took a fall while carrying the baby. A downstairs neighbor called 9-1-1. You need to meet us at Brooklyn Hospital Emergency.”

My breathing changes. Going in and out, but harsher. And with a squeaking, quaking afterbite.

“Can you do that, Mrs. Jameson?”

“Y-Yes,” I manage to breathe out shakily. “Yes.”

“Okay. What’s the name of your husband? We can’t find his ID.”

“Is he okay?” I say. “Locke—I mean, Lachlan Hayes. Is my baby—Lily Tobias—okay?”

“You need to meet us at the hospital.”

“I—”

Pierce’s arm comes around me, and he’s murmuring something, but the phone drops from my ear as I stare outside.

Fuck this.

The downstairs neighbor called 9-1-1. The accident happened at home.

I can run to the fucking ambulance.

Peeling out of Pierce’s embrace, I nearly topple over tables with my departure. The check flutters from my hands.

All I can think of, all I can get to, is my tiny, wonderful family, and what could have happened to break them.

* * *

I missed the fucking ambulance.

When I reach the block, I see it’s flashing lights departing, siren blaring.

“Wait!” I scream, my voice going raw on the single syllable. “Wait!”

But they don’t. And it’s probably a good thing, because why should they wait for me when something could be dangerously wrong with the people inside?

“Oh, my g…” I can’t finish the sentence. I’m gulping as I pull my phone back out, tap into a car service. I need to get to the hospital.

If something’s happened—if they’re hurt, or worse—oh, my God, what happened? What could’ve occurred in the three hours I’ve been gone?

“I saw them,” I said to the app. “I just saw them, and they were fine. Totally okay. Nothing was…nothing was…” I lift my gaze from the phone, vision dancing with tears. I sniffle, my nose feeling hot, my mouth feeling swollen, with growing hysteria.

“Carter?”

Whirling to the voice, the not-so-logical part of me hears Locke. But it’s not him. It’s his friend, the band guy, named after a compass direction.

Why can’t I remember his name?

“I…” I say as greeting.