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“He thinks his brake lines were cut,” Simon 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,” Nash said quickly. He glared at Simon. “You haven’t taken his truck into Thatcher’s yet.”

“The hell we don't,” Jase 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.” Simon'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.” Simon 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 Trenda's voice cut through the chaos in my head.

“Where is she? Where's Joy?”

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

“Thank God you're here.”

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

“He's stable,” Simon 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,” Jase added.

Trenda's expression darkened. “That's ridiculous. Simon Clark, you fix this right now.”

“Trenda, I can't just⁠—”

“I don't want to hear it.” Trenda's voice carried the authority she used with her daughter. “That woman has been through hell, and the man she loves is lying in a hospital bed. You figure out a way to get her in there, or I will.”

The force of Trenda's anger on my behalf broke something loose in my chest. Tears I'd been holding back since the phone call to Jase spilled over.

“Please,” I whispered. “I just need to see him. I need to know he's okay.”

Simon looked between his wife's determined face and my tear-streaked one, then sighed. “Let me talk to the nurse in charge or a doctor.”

Twenty minutes later, we stood outside Graham's room while a nurse explained his condition. Two broken ribs. Severe concussion. Dislocated left shoulder. Cuts and bruises covering most of his body. He was lucky to be alive.

Lucky.

The word felt like a mockery.

“He's sedated for the pain,” the nurse continued, “but he's been asking for Joy since he arrived.”

My hand trembled as I reached for the door handle. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight that greeted me.

Graham lay propped against white pillows, his face a map of bruises and cuts. His left arm was immobilized in a sling, and I could see the bulk of bandages wrapped around his ribs. But his eyes were open, and the moment he saw me, his entire face transformed.

“Thank God,” he breathed.

It was as if I floated to his side of the bed, my hands hovering over him, afraid to touch anything for fear of causing more pain.