Jeremy answers that one.
“What happened?”
“She was attacked,” Maverick answers.
“Any known medical conditions or allergies to medications?”
“No,” Jeremy adds.
The questions keep coming, voices overlapping, but they don’t reach me. None of it does. All I see is her. Small, broken and bloodied on the white sheet. My brain can’t process the contrast. Her hand slips from the edge of the gurney as they turn the corner into the trauma bay and I catch it before it can fall.
Cold. Not lifeless. Just cold.
Stay.
“Sir, we need you to wait here,” a nurse says, her hand pressing against my chest as they wheel her through the double doors. I don’t move.
“Karson.” Maverick’s voice lands closer now, quieter. “They’ve got her.”
I watch as the doors slowly swing closed, willing them to stay open so I don’t lose sight of her again. Maverick’s hand lands on my shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before he leads me over to the waiting area outside the trauma unit. He and Jeremy sit, but I remain rooted in place looking down at my hands.
The blood is already starting to dry. It’s dark now, sticky where it settled into the lines of my palms, under my nails and along the edge of my wrist where her head rested while I carried her in. I don’t remember handing her off. I just remember the weight of her in my arms and how light she felt. Too light. My hands flex. I can still feel her there.
I begin to pace. Three steps. Turn. Three steps back.
The waiting room hums with quiet noise–muted television, vending machines and distant voices. The doors slide open and Parker rushes in. Her eyes land on me first, then my hands. She stops.
“Karson,” she breathes.
I don’t answer. I don’t know how. She moves closer, slower now, as if she’s approaching a wounded animal.
“Where is she?” she asks.
“They took her straight into trauma,” Maverick answers gently behind her.
Parker nods once, sharp and controlled but her eyes flick back to my hands. Her throat moves as she swallows.
“You carried her,” she whispers. It’s not a question. My jaw tightens.
I look down at my hands again, at the proof that I was too late.
My throat burns.
“I left her,” I say, the words rough and low. Parker steps closer. Her hand hovers for a second before resting lightly on my forearm–-careful. Grounding.
“You didn’t leave her,” she says softly. “You came back.”
I don’t look at her. I can’t. I lift my head to look at the ceiling, and squeeze my eyes shut. All I see is Ashlynn on the ground, not moving.
“I need to wash my hands,” I rush out and walk to the bathroom across the hall.
Shoving the door open, I step to a sink and turn the faucet on hot. Small puffs of steam float up as I pump some soap into my palms, and I scrub. I scrub until the skin is raw. Pink swirls in the white porcelain, washing away the evidence of me carrying her, but I can still feel it. Getting off as much as I can, I dry my hands on my shirt and look at my reflection. Her blood soaks into the fabric of my clothes, making sure I don’t forget that I left her. That I let this happen.
Coming back into the waiting room, Parker sits between Mav and Jeremy. She listens as Jeremy fills her in on what he saw on the cameras, and how he found her. He tried telling me on the ride over here, but I didn’t hear any of it.
The door swings open again that leads into the trauma area. This time it isn’t chaos, it’s a doctor. Mid-forties. Calm. Efficient. The kind of calm that only exists in people who see the worst every day. He scans the room.
“Family of Ashlynn Steele.”
