She needs me.
Mira is alive. I know that much. Because the second he told me she was in an accident, I grabbed the cop by the front of his shirt and demanded he tell me every fucking detail.
“You can’t do a damn thing from jail,” Coach hissed, dragging me away from the officer. “Calm down, son.”
But there is no such thing as “calm” when Mira is hurt. When I’m still ten minutes away and she needs me.
Mira is alive, I remind myself, blowing out a deep breath.
I also learned why Evan didn’t answer his phone, either. He and Mira were both in the car and they both had to be rushed to the hospital from the scene. I didn’t ask about the asshole who hit them because I could really care less, but apparently, the cops are still looking for them.
“He got away?” I growled.
I don’t know how someone can send Mira and Evan to the hospital, yet come out okay enough to flee the scene, but I made a silent vow to hunt them down and ensure the motherfucker gets exactly what is coming to him.
At the hospital, I slam to a stop halfway up some curb and don’t bother fixing it. I’m not even sure I close my car door behind me. The only thing I can think about is getting inside.
Finding Mira.
Touching Mira.
My phone buzzes and I read it as I’m running.
DANIEL: I have Aiden. I’m taking him to Reeves’s house. Jemma is there and said she’d watch him.
Aiden is safe.
Mira is alive.
I repeat those facts to myself again and again as I keep sprinting down one hall after the next.
My phone buzzes again, but it isn’t Daniel—it’s the security system at home.
Front Door Alarm Activated.
I can only watch the recorded footage for the front door camera, not the live feed. From the glances I steal down at the footage as I take an elevator up to the fourth floor, everything looks fine. But the rest of my life is melting down around me—why not my security system, too?
I try to see the live footage again, but the app freezes and then crashes.
“Fuck!” I roar, squeezing my phone hard enough it should shatter before I decide it might be useful over the next few hours and pocket it instead.
I barely know where I am, and the letters PACU printed on the wall in thick, black font aren’t helpful.
Turns out, screaming obscenities at the top of your lungs is helpful. No less than three nurses pop out of rooms and head my way. One of them is saying something into a walkie, and I’m sure security will be here within the minute.
“Mira McNeil,” I growl to anyone who will listen. “I’m looking for Mira McNeil. She was in an accident. A car accident.” Saying the words out loud makes me feel nauseous. When I first got to the hospital to see Daniel, I was still coming down from all the shit I took the night before. I barely remember it.
But I’m painfully sober now.
“This is the Post-Anesthesia Care Unit,” one nurse says.
I stare at her blankly, waiting for her to say something useful.
“I don’t need to know where I am,” I snap. “I’m looking for my—” Wife sits on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. “Girlfriend. I’m looking for my girlfriend.”
The woman shakes her head. “The PACU is for post-surgery. If she was just in an accident, she might still be in the OR. You’ll have to check with the front desk.”
“You shouldn’t even be here,” an older woman interjects. “You don’t have a visitor’s badge. Who let you in?”