Page 5 of The Final Cut

“Delia,” I say.

His face hardens. “We’ll find the trail.”

“Find her.”

“We will.”

I believe him because I have to.

Deacon puts a hand at my back and guides me toward the ambulance. I nearly trip again, and he lifts me by the waist like my body weighs nothing, setting me onto the rear step before I can turn and claw at him for helping.

Cal is already inside, pale under the harsh lights. Too pale. The female medic climbs in after him, talking into the radio. Adult male, gunshot wound, hypotensive, altered, possible thoracoabdominal involvement. ETA…

I know those words.

I hate those words.

The male paramedic climbs into the driver’s seat, and Deacon follows me into the back without asking permission. The female medic gives him a look that should peel paint.

“She stays seated,” she says, nodding at me.

“She will,” Deacon answers.

I glare at him. “Do not speak for me.”

His eyes meet mine. Dark. Steady. Ruined in some quiet place he won’t show anyone else. “Then sit down before they throw you out.”

I sit because Cal jerks with a cough, and the medic needs room.

The doors slam.

For one second, through the small back windows, I see the terrace shrink into a frame. Nash stands in the spill of light from the mansion, phone to his ear, blood on one cuff, looking less like a man and more like a line nobody crosses twice. Shiloh is behind him, talking to a uniformed officer who has just arrived and already looks sorry he did. Ever has one hand to his ear, the other on his tablet, head bowed over the screen like he can force Delia to appear through sheer fury.

Then the ambulance lurches forward, and they are gone.

The siren starts above us.

Inside the ambulance, everything is too bright. Too close. Cal’s blood is on my hands, my forearms, under my nails. It has dried in the tiny creases of my knuckles and stayed wet in the lines of my palms. The green skirt of my dress spills over the bench like something from a storybook that wandered into the wrong ending.

The medic works over Cal. IV. Fluids. Oxygen. Pressure. Monitor. She checks his pupils, his pulse, his breathing. I watch every move with the vicious attention of a person who would rather be unbearable than useless.

“His pressure?” I ask.

“Low.”

“How low?”

She doesn’t answer.

My stomach turns. “How low?”

“Reva.” Deacon sits across from me, braced with one hand against the wall as the ambulance takes a hard turn. “Let her work.”

“I am letting her work.”

“You’re interrogating her.”

“She should answer.”