The nurse rushes back in, alarm flashing across her face before she forces it down. “Sir, you need to stop. You’re going to injure yourself.”
“Where is it?” I shout, clawing at the monitor leads. Adhesive tears from my skin. “The necklace around my neck. Where did you put it?”
“You need to calm down.”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” My vision tunnels. “Where is it? What did you do with it?!”
Two agents push in behind her without knocking, eyes already hard. One looks me up and down with open contempt. The other stays near the door like he expects me to lunge.
“My necklace. The vial, where the fuck is it?” I snap.
The agent closest to the bed gives a humorless smile. “You mean the creepy little blood chain you were wearing? Was it one of your victim’s?”
I lunge forward against the restraint. The cuff bites deep.
He doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. We took it. Standard procedure when we bring in a homicide suspect.”
The nurse glances between them, then back at me. “All personal items are collected during trauma intake. It’s probably been logged with—”
“Probably?” I bite out. “If it’s gone, I swear to god—”
“You’ll what?” the first agent cuts in, stepping closer to the bed. “Add another body to your list?”
Rage burns through the pain. “We’ll look into it,” the second agent says tightly. “Right now you need to answer some questions.”
“I’m not saying shit until I get it back.”
He tilts his head. “You’re not in a position to make demands.”
They exchange a look that isn’t uncertainty. It’s calculation.
Brooke is out there, and I don’t even have the last thing I have left of her. The thought hits hard enough to make my hands shake. I yank against the strap again. Metal tears into skin. Blood slides warm down my wrist.
The nurse inhales sharply but doesn't reach for the call button this time. Instead she steps closer to the bed, eyes on the agents. “If it’s logged, I can call intake myself and confirm the item number.”
“Stay in your lane,” one of the agents says without looking at her.
She straightens anyway. “He just came out of surgery. Elevated stress can cause complications. Let me verify it.”
“Now,” I warn, voice low.
One of the agents steps forward until he is within arm’s reach. “That’s enough, Kincaid.”
My head snaps toward him. “Get me the fucking necklace!”
“It’s not lost,” the second agent says firmly. “It’s in evidence or personal effects.”
My eyes lock on his. He holds my stare like he is daring me to try something.
The necklace isn’t just some keepsake. It’s her blood. Her gift. The last thread between us. I can feel the absence of it like something torn out and left open.
“Then go find it,” I growl. “Now!”
The first agent gives the nurse an irritated look. “Fine. Get a catalog of his personal items. Make it quick.”
She nods immediately and steps toward the counter, already reaching for the phone. “I’ll call intake and security. I’ll get the item number and have it brought up.”
The nurse speaks into the phone with clipped urgency. “Yes, this is ICU. I need immediate verification on patient Kincaid’s personal effects… A necklace with a vial attached… Yes... Priority.”
