Grant yanking that black bag over Brooke’s head. Her screaming my name until her voice gave out. I tried to move, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. I was on the ground, forced to watch as they dragged her through the service door.
Another image cuts in.
John turned and looked straight at me. He tossed the engagement ring I bought for Brooke into the blood pooling beneath me like it meant nothing.
The same man I trusted enough to ask for his blessing to marry his niece.
My stomach twists as medics push me through the hallway. One of them shouts something about my pulse. Another demands more pressure on the wound. My vision narrows until everything shrinks to a thin strip of light.
Cold metal rattles beneath me as the ambulance sways down the road. Red lights flash against the walls, throwing everything into rapid pulses. Each bump jars my body, sending pain from my shoulder down my ribs in heavy, suffocating waves.
Two medics work over me, one adjusting the mask on my face while the other pushes fluid through the IV in my arm. Their voices cut through the noise in tight, urgent bursts.
“I want another unit of blood ready,” one says. “He’s not stabilizing.”
The other shakes his head. “He lost too much on scene. If he crashes again, I need you on compressions.”
Neither of them looks at me. They talk around me like I’m already dead. Then their voices shift.
“Do you know who he is?” the medic near my shoulder says quietly.
“Yeah,” the other answers. “Kincaid. He’s the one they think did all of this.”
My pulse pounds louder than the siren.
“They’re saying he killed everyone. Hotel guests, officers. Even that snowplow driver on 38.”
“They think he killed the Rangers too?” the other asks.
“That’s what the lieutenant said. The FBI wanted him alive for questioning. Looks like he tried to shoot his way out.”
They think I did it.
The poisoning.
The massacre.
The chaos.
All of it pinned on me.
I try to speak, but the mask presses tight against my mouth. Pain surges through my ribs when I try to sit up. The medic shoves me back down.
“Let the sedatives work. You’re lucky to be breathing.”
I ignore him.
None of this matters. None of these accusations matter. Only one question cuts through the pain like broken glass.
Where is Brooke?
I try to force myself up again, but my body won’t move the way I need it to. Every instinct in me screams to fight, to claw, to rip out the IV line, to break the restraints on the stretcher, to get out of this ambulance before they take me farther away from her.
If I stay here, I’ll lose her. If I stay here, she dies alone.
I push against the straps again. The medic curses under his breath and forces me back down.
“Hold still, you’re making this worse.”
