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JoJo gasped. Her hand tightened on mine until I thought she would crush my bones.
“How is she?”
The nurse wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Critical. That’s all I know.”
I pointed at the screen. “They aren’t performing surgery for no reason. What’s critical?”
“The surgeon will speak to you about the specifics of her injuries as soon as she’s out,” she rattled off as if reciting from a textbook.
JoJo swayed. “I need to see her.”
There was an ounce of sympathy in the woman’s eyes, but it was tainted from years of dealing with people just like us. She had to be hard. I understood. But now I needed information.
“You’ll have to wait for the surgeon. There’s a seating area back through those doors.” She pointed to the ones we’d come through. “And a cafe down in the basement. They’re open twenty-four hours.”
A cafe?
How was a cafe going to help Penelope?
Alarms went off. Chaos ensued as nurses and doctors raced toward a room.
“You need to go.”
“Is it Penelope?” JoJo whispered.
“The doctor will update you as soon as she can.”
Reluctantly, I led JoJo back out to the waiting room for the masses. I’d find the hospital administrator’s name and cell phone number. What good was having a powerful name and money if I couldn’t throw it around to get information?
JoJo collapsed in one of the chairs while I paced, scrolling my phone for the number I needed.
“Zegas.”
I spun.
Whitley hustled into the emergency room with Marlow and the kids in tow. I blinked at him in surprise.
Why was he here?
Because that’s what friends do.
“How is she?” He slapped my shoulder as he approached.
“In surgery. Critical.” I yanked on my hair. “I don’t know.”
“Hi!” Blake shook my hand, startling me.
“Hi,” I said back distractedly.
“How bad was it?” JoJo asked. She was ghostly pale. Her gaze was trained on the floor and her hands were knotted together on her lap.
Whitley darted his eyes to Marlow, who was uncharacteristically quiet.
“Uh . . .” He ran a hand through his hair. He and his family had arrived at the scene moments after the accident. And he was being suspiciously quiet.
“Spit it out,” I said, my patience officially gone. It wasn’t his fault, but he was the closest target for my frustration.
“It was ugly,” he finally said.
