Page 97 of Knox

“Ms. Mercer.” Darvis surveyed the destruction. She scanned Walter’s battered face, where paramedics strapped him to a gurney, my zip ties replaced with proper restraints. “When you’re late for an appointment, you certainly have a reason.”

Sloane managed a weak laugh.

A young paramedic approached us with a medical bag. “Do you need a gurney?”

“I can walk.” Sloane tried to stand, but her legs buckled.

I scooped her into my arms. “I’ve got her.”

I carried her through the house, past the deputies processing the scene, past the broken glass and splintered door.

Morning sun hit me like a physical blow when I stepped outside. Too bright. Too cheerful for what had happened. The growing wind did its best to blow us away.

Inside the ambulance, paramedics worked to remove glass fragments from her hands. I took a seat on the bench at her side.

The male paramedic climbed in and began his assessment. Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. Shining a light in her eyes.

“Pupils are reactive,” he said. “Ma’am, can you tell me your name?”

“Sloane Mercer.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Tuesday.” She coughed. “I think.”

“Close enough. It’s Wednesday.” He pressed gently around her throat. “This is going to hurt. Tell me if it gets too intense.”

Sloane flinched but held still.

It hurt me physically to see her in pain. Watching her try to be brave when she’d already fought so damn hard.

“Significant bruising,” the paramedic said. “Possible damage to the larynx. You’ll need imaging at the hospital.”

She nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks.

I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “You’re safe now. I promise.”

Through the back window, I watched Sloane’s house shrink and disappear from view, along with the week’s horrors.

And I made a silent vow.

Starting tomorrow, I would spend every day making her life beautiful.

Chapter 32

Knox

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting Sloane’s hospital room in sterile white light that made her skin look pale as death. I sat in the chair beside her bed, fingers laced with hers, refusing to move despite three separate nurses suggesting I wait outside.

“Blood pressure’s good,” the doctor said, unwrapping the cuff from Sloane’s arm. “Bruising on your throat is consistent with strangulation, but your airway looks clear. I don’t see any permanent damage. We’ve cleaned and bandaged the cuts on your hands—those were superficial and should heal without any scarring.”

“Can I go home?” Sloane’s voice was raspy, painful-sounding, and I flinched.

“I’d prefer to keep you for observation. Head injuries, potential shock⁠—”

“I didn’t hit my head. And I’m not in shock.” Sloane’s grip on my hand tightened. “Please. I just want to leave.”

I met the doctor’s gaze over Sloane’s head. Saw the mix of concern and understanding there.