Page 40 of None Of Your Business

So I do nothing. I sit behind the glass and watch.

As Webb ends the session, Rowan closes her sketchbook. She slips the pencil into the spiral binding, then pulls her bag onto her shoulder before anyone else has moved.

“Take what you need from tonight,” Webb says. “Leave the rest and have a peaceful week.”

Rowan nods and stands, but it’s too fast.

Her hand reaches for the back of the chair but misses just as her face drains of color and her knees unlock.

“Rowan—”

She drops.

The side of her forehead catches the corner of the low wooden table on the way down.

The crack is sickening.

I push back from the desk so hard my chair slams against the wall. The observation door hits the stopper with a loud bang as I yank it open and move.

Everyone is on their feet.

“Give her space,” Webb says, moving toward her. “Step back, please.”

I drop to my knees beside Rowan. “Don’t move her.”

She’s completely still, blood threading through the hair at her temple.

Memories threaten to pull me under. I’m somewhere else. Bright lights, blue gloves, someone shouting my name.

Fuck. Get it together.

“Rowan?”

No response.

I check her breathing. It’s fast, but regular. My fingers find her pulse. It’s rapid. Very fucking rapid.

“Webb, call 911. Tell them loss of consciousness with a head strike.”

I brace a hand beside her shoulder without touching her, my eyes fixed on her face. “Rowan.”

Nothing.

My pulse is hammering hard enough that I can hear it. This is ridiculous. She’s breathing, she has a pulse, help is coming, and I know exactly what to do.

My hands know exactly what to do.

So why the fuck are they shaking?

“Come on,” I say, quieter this time.

Her lashes move.

“Rowan? Open your eyes.”

A tiny crease appears between her brows.

There you are.