Page 5 of Cold Mercy

Russo blinks, surprised. “Sir?”

“You heard me. But inform her that a representative from the Federal Prosecutor's Office is already en route to Mount Sinai. She has twenty minutes to arrive and present herself for questioning. If she's not there, issue a city-wide bolo for her detention. Understood?”

They are putting a clock on the worst moment of my life, turning my tragedy into their show.

“Understood, sir,” Russo responds immediately.

I move before he can change his mind.

I have too many thoughts in my head. That wasn’t me back there. I don’t talk like that, don’t threaten strangers, don’t swing my name like a weapon. Never. I can’t hold myself upright against anything. The floor slips, the walls tilt, and I don't have control, no impact.

I cut for the curb where we left the car. The ambulance is gone. I’m late to the one thing that couldn’t stand me being late. He needs me most right now, and I’m not there.

Minutes later, I’m through the sliding doors at Mount Sinai, his blood still tacky on my hands. I hit the desk at a run.

“My fiancé was shot. They said they were bringing him here. Mercer. Noah Mercer. Gunshot to the chest.”

The registrar’s face is calm, practiced. She types, scans, types again.

“There’s no one by that name,” she says, and repeats it twice before it lands. “Sometimes critical patients bypass intake. I can… check the morgue.”

“Check again,” I demand, without giving her a choice.

“Please, ma'am. I really don't see anyone with that name. Please wait a moment, I'll call…”

I don’t wait for the call to connect. The floor tips. I tell myself to stand. Find Noah. He’s here. Find him.

I see a sign: B2 - Mortuary. My body moves. Down the corridor, into the service elevator, past No Unauthorized Entry signs. Doors open on cold tile and bright, indifferent light.

There’s a small anteroom before the double doors. A man in a pale coat stands there with a chart, and next to him, a red-haired woman, compact and built like trouble and authority at once.

“Noah Mercer,” I say, breathless. “Did you bring him in?”

The man’s expression folds. He looks at me from top to bottom as if I were a beaten dog.

“I’m very sorry,” he utters and disappears through a numbered door.

The woman steps forward, and shows a badge.

“Grace O’Malley. Federal Prosecutor’s Office. Please, Ms. Moreau, have a seat.”

I don’t sit.

“Tell me where he is. Tell me what happened.”

Her jaw softens a fraction.

“Ms. Moreau, I’m very sorry. Mr. Mercer died on the way to the hospital.”

The room narrows to a point. The walls wait to see what I do with the sentence.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “That's…That's impossible, you...you made a mistake. He's just hurt, he's hurt, but she's still here.”

I look at the numbered door, willing it to open, to see him walk out.

“He…he promised me,” I say with a cracking voice. “He promised we were going back home.”

Grace's expressions give me a practiced look, a professional sympathy, but it doesn't reach her eyes.