Page 3 of Monk

“I need to knownow!” My voice broke into a sob. “Please. Please, I just need to see.” The desperation in my plea was raw, tearing through the last threads of composure I had left.

Another stretcher came out. My stomach twisted, my hands trembling uncontrollably, as I waited for the worst.

White sheet. Completely covered. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint wail of sirens and the distant cries of bystanders.

I made a sound I didn’t recognize. Something animalistic and broken. My knees buckled. The officer caught my arm, steadying me, but I couldn’t look away from the stretcher. From the shape under the sheet. From the blood seeping through the white fabric. I remembered the warmth of John’s embrace, and now I was left with nothing but dread and the cold bite of loss.

No. No, please, not John. Please, not John.

“Miss, you need to calm down.” Even as the officer tried to help, terror clawed at me, my breaths shallow and ragged.

“Is he alive?” I grabbed the officer’s arm, desperate. “John Smith. Is he? Did he?” My words tumbled out, barely coherent, the fear in my chest eclipsing everything else. Grief, disbelief, and hope collided inside me, tearing at my soul.

“I don’t have that information. You need to...” The officer’s words blurred, lost in the roaring tide of anguish and fear inside me. I tried to remember John’s smile, tried to hold onto something real, but I was drowning in uncertainty.

Another stretcher emerged, wheels clattering against cracked pavement. Another body. This one exposed, face slack and unfamiliar, the chest soaked red—so much blood. Medics pressed and counted, murmuring numbers, but his eyes stared past them, wide and empty. I wanted to look away. I couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. My hands trembled against my sides, cold and useless. I thought of John’s hands—the wayhe’d warmed mine beneath the covers, just three weeks ago, whispering, “Everything’s okay.” But nothing was okay now.

Iknew.I knew he was gone. How many had fallen? How many bodies were still inside, still bleeding, still dying? Was John one of them? Was he lying somewhere, gasping for breath, while I stood here—helpless, terrified, clutching the secret inside me he would never know? My mind spun, looping back to the pink test on the bathroom counter and his sleepy smile. What if—what if I never got to tell him? What if all I had left were memories?

I lunged forward, desperate, and tried to push past the officer. He blocked me, voice hardening. “Ma’am, I will have you removed if you don’t step back.” The words echoed, but behind them was chaos—a crowd pressed tight, murmurs rising and falling, the distant thrum of sirens weaving through the night. Blue lights flickered. Radios crackled. Somewhere behind me, a woman sobbed; somewhere, a child whimpered. Every sound seemed sharp, urgent, unreal. Sweat prickled down my spine. I pressed my palm to my stomach, feeling a faint flutter, a hope I couldn’t name.

Time warped. Minutes collapsed into hours, or maybe only seconds. Sirens rose and fell. More stretchers appeared, each one a new horror, a new possibility. I scanned every face, every limp form—searching, praying. Praying not to find John. Praying to find him.

And then I heard it. A paramedic, talking to a police officer near one of the ambulances.

“—total massacre. Complete bloodbath. Vasquez Cartel came in heavy, real heavy. They had automatic weapons, body armor, the whole nine yards. Most of the officers are dead. I’m talking at least a dozen confirmed KIA, maybe more. We’ve got maybe two, three survivors, but they’re critical. Gunshot wounds to the chestand abdomen. EMTs are working on them now, but I don’t know if they’re gonna make it. It’s bad. Real bad.”

Most of the officers are dead.

My world tilted.

John was an officer. Sergeant at Arms.

Most of the officers are dead.

My thoughts circled, wild and frantic:Most of the officers are dead. Most of the officers are dead. Most of the officers are dead.I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but stand there and feel my entire world crumble into ash. I couldn’t hear anything except the roaring in my ears and the paramedic’s words echoing over and over.

Most of the officers are dead.

Dead.

Dead.

I pressed my hand to my stomach.

Our baby.

John would never know. He would never know that I was pregnant. He would never meet his child. He would never hold them or see them smile or hear them laugh.

He was gone.

And I was alone.

Just hours ago, I was at the scene. Now, somehow, I was home—standing in the middle of my living room, my hands trembling so badly I pressed them to my thighs to keep from shaking. I couldn’t recall the drive, or the sound of my keys turning in thelock. My mind was a blur, but the sharp scent of the lemon oil I always used on the coffee table grounded me, and I found myself staring at nothing, chest tight with the memory of the world unraveling.

The radio was still on. The static crackled, a faint buzz that set my nerves on edge. I pulled at my sleeve—a nervous tic, something I’d done since childhood whenever anxiety threatened to swallow me whole.

“—confirmed at least twelve dead and several more critically injured in what authorities are calling the Diamondback Clubhouse Massacre. The brutal attack occurred late last night at the motorcycle club’s headquarters on the outskirts of town. The Vasquez Cartel is believed to be responsible for the coordinated assault, which witnesses describe as a military-style operation involving automatic weapons and multiple vehicles. Law enforcement officials say this marks a significant escalation in the ongoing turf war between?—”