Page 110 of Danger

She shakes her head, feeling sorry for me. “We can’t release any information at this time.”

I pick up a chair and hurl it against the wall, wood splintering, echo ringing down the hall. I don't stop there. I tear through the room, sending one piece after another into the wall, each crash louder than the last until security rushes in. By then, all I see is red. All I feel is rage.

I can’t make out what they’re saying. All I hear is the static hiss of my own pulse, rattling through the marrow. Then a man in a uniform pushes through the far doors. Sheriff Dawson looks like he hasn't slept since he took the job.

He fixes on me and lets out a slow, measured sigh. “Stetson. How many chairs did you break?”

“Not enough.” My hands still sting. I let him see it. “They won't tell me shit. They won’t even tell me if she’s—if she’s okay.”

He drags a palm down his face. We grew up together, and he’s more loyal to me than his job, probably because I pay him well to look out for us and the ranch. He knows exactly how far I’ll go, which is all the way.

“You can’t wait in the lobby like a normal person?” he asks, silencing his radio.

“I pay you more than your fucking salary,” I bark. “Get me back there. Now.”

He looks at me, then at the guards, then at the woman at the front desk, who’s currently using a nail file. He walks over, leans in, and says something I can’t catch. The woman nods, reaches for her phone, and dials an extension. The guards exchange glances. Dawson turns, drops his voice. “You break anything else, I let them taze you.”

“Whatever,” I say, but I’m already halfway down the hall. I hear him behind me, giving the guards the nod. “I got him,” he says. “Sorry about the mess.”

They start cleaning up the wreckage.

Sheriff jogs to keep up. “She’s in trauma 2, second floor. But no more damage.”

"Then you better hope I don't see a Kennedy in here." I hold his gaze. "Because none of them will walk out."

“I’ll keep my eyes out. I’m on my way to tell her family. Afterwards, I’ll stop by your place and have PJ get you some clothes.”

“Fine,” I say. The elevator dings open, empty except for the smell of sanitizer. I step inside. He doesn’t follow.

When the doors close, I catch a glimpse of myself in the brushed metal—shirtless, streaked red, hands and arms cut up and bruised.

If I saw me coming, I’d bolt.

I push through the hallway until I find Trauma 2. She's lying on the bed. The light over her is low, and she looks tiny and peaceful in white sheets.

There’s a nurse by the monitors, adjusting a drip. She glances up, mouth tight. “Are you family?”

“Yes,” I say, and it feels true. It’s the only thing that matters right now.

She looks me up and down, like she’s makin’ a note for the police later. “She’s stable. Right now she’s unresponsive, which isn’t unusual after an impact like that.”

I don’t breathe. I take three steps closer, still not close enough.

“We’ve stabilized her,” the nurse says carefully. “But the swelling is the concern. Sometimes the brain needs time to heal. Sometimes…” She hesitates, maybe thinking about how much to share with a man who looks like a liability. “Sometimes it doesn’t respond the way we want it to.”

“How long?” My voice comes out hollow. I’m wrecked.

“We will know more in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours. These first few days are critical.”

Critical.

The nurse tells me she has a good team here, that I should go home and get cleaned up, shower, changed. I don’t even look at her.

“I’m not leaving her,” I say.

She tries once more, but I cut her off. “I’m not leaving.”

She nods, like she’s seen this before, and leaves the room, a soft hush of rubber soles.