Page 7 of Kylie

It was on their faces. Juliet Prince was not in custody. She was not being processed for attempted murder.

“She fled the scene,” Reese answered, his tone smooth and low. “But we’ve got a license plate number, and there’s a BOLO out for the car. We’ll⁠—”

“Where is she? Where is my wife?”

The voice boomed through the space, drawing the attention of everyone.

I was on my feet, moving toward Travis.

The instant he saw me, he was marching over, then his arms were around me, holding me together. I held on to him, inhaling his familiar scent, trying to absorb some of his strength, knowing I would need it.

Travis’s hand cradled the back of my head, holding firmly as we leaned on one another. It didn’t last long, but it was long enough to assure me that Travis was there with me, that I was not in this alone.

When Travis released me, stepping back, I gripped his arm, feeling back in control of myself for the first time since leaving the park. “Come on. Let’s sit.”

“Where is she?” Travis demanded, stopping me when I tried to lead us away from the nurses’ station.

“They’ve taken her into surgery,” I explained, recalling only briefly what I'd been told.

“Surgery?” He frowned. “Why? For what?”

Honestly, I had no idea, and I didn’t want to lead him to believe otherwise.

“Let’s take a seat,” Curtis suggested, his voice low and commanding as he motioned us to the far side of the room.

“I don’t wanna sit,” Travis snapped. “I wanna see my wife.”

“You will,” Brantley said firmly. “Give them time to take care of her.”

My first instinct was to placate Travis, to tell him everything was going to be all right, that Kylie would be fine. I didn’t say any of those things. Probably because I had so many doubts myself. Fear, even now, threatened to choke me. It was likely exacerbated by the sheer terror I could see on Travis’s face. The man who was always strong and stoic looked anything but, and that scared the shit out of me.

Someone directed us to an empty corner of the room, offered coffee. We both refused but took our seats. I settled for sitting silently, my arm brushing Travis’s as we both remained perfectly still, staring at the doors that led to our wife.

Time moved slowly. Too slowly.

“How long has she been back there?” someone eventually asked.

“Not long,” someone else answered.

There were a few hushed whispers, maybe even a group praying softly. I barely heard them over the steady, painful thump of my heart as I sent up my own silent prayer, begging God to spare the most beautiful, the most vibrant woman I'd ever known.

Suddenly, the doors opened, and a man stepped out. Older man, pleasant face, serious eyes. Blue scrubs. He pulled off the face mask and the hair covering as he approached. It was in his movements, a sense of regret that had my heart squeezing.

“Walker family?”

No. Please no.

I got to my feet, shaking my head. It hadn’t been long enough. They hadn’t had her back there long enough to fix her broken, battered body.

“Is Kylie gonna be all right?” someone asked.

No.

I didn’t look away from the doctor. I saw the sorrow and remorse before I heard the words.

No, no, no.

And then the doctor said the words that would irrevocably change the world as we knew it.