Page 119 of Until Joy

The woman's fingers clicked across her keyboard. “Are you family?”

“I'm his girlfriend. We live together.”

“I'm sorry, but I can only release information to immediate family or the emergency contact listed in our system.”

My hands pressed flat against the cool surface of the desk. “Then who is his emergency contact?”

“A Mr. Wesley Silver.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I spun around to face Wes, fury rising in my chest like a tide.

“You're his emergency contact?”

Wes shifted uncomfortably. “Joy, let me explain.”

“Explain what? That my boyfriend, the man I love, listed someone else as his emergency contact instead of me?” My voice cracked on the last word.

“It's not like that. Those forms were filled out years ago, before he met you.”

I shook my head and took a deep breath. “Right. Right. Of course. Then tell me how he is. Please.”

Z and Jax flanked me now, their presence solid and reassuring, I tried not to focus on the crushing realization that no matter how we felt about one another, I wasn't Graham's next of kin.

“If you can't tell me how he is,” I said, “tell me what happened.” I glared at Wes.

Wes glanced at Z and Jax, some unspoken communication passing between them.

“He thinks his brake lines were cut.” Wes told me reluctantly.

The hospital lobby tilted around me. Cut brake lines. Someone had sabotaged Graham's truck? Someone had tried to kill him?

“We don't know that for certain,” Jax said quickly. He glared at Wes. “You haven’t taken his truck into the shop yet.”

“The hell we don't,” Z shot back. “You saw the photos from the scene. Those lines were sliced just enough so that they’d start leaking as soon as he started driving.”

Because of me. My stalker had escalated from psychological warfare to attempted homicide, and Graham had paid the price.

“Joy.” Wes's voice seemed to come from very far away. “Joy, you're hyperventilating. You need to sit down.”

I pressed my hands to my knees, trying to force air into my lungs. The guilt felt crushing, a weight that threatened to drive me to my knees right there in the hospital lobby.

“This is my fault,” I whispered.

“No.” Wes crouched in front of me, his hands on my shoulders. “This is not your fault. Do you hear me? This is the fault of whatever sick bastard is after you.”

The automatic doors whooshed open, and July's voice cut through the chaos in my head.

“Where is she? Where's Joy?”

Relief flooded Wes's face as his wife hurried toward us.

“Thank God you're here.”

July took one look at my face and immediately shifted into protective mode. “What's going on? How's Graham?”

“He's stable,” Wes said. “Broken ribs, concussion, dislocated shoulder. They're still running tests.”

“And Joy hasn't been able to see him because she's not listed as his emergency contact,” Z added.