Page 141 of Bad Blood

“I need in there.” I point.

“Is he steady?” The arm around my shoulders disappears. “I think he’s okay.”

I dart toward the caution tape, ducking underneath it, stumbling around, searching for someone who has some answers.

“Hey!”

I glance behind me, but none of the others are brave enough to enter the blocked area.

“Stop!” the officer in the middle of the street yells. His light flashes like a disco ball as he runs toward me. “No one’s allowed back here.”

I need to get to Brighton. I pull out my phone, dial her number, and race in the opposite direction of the officer.

The crack of his radio echoes as he spouts off information. “Male, six-foot, black hoodie, jeans—coming your way. I’m right behind him.”

His hand swipes at my back, and I stumble, falling to my hands and knees. My phone skitters across the pavement. He’s on top of me in less than a second. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. You don’t want to be in here.”

“I have to get to her, please . . .”

He helps me to my feet and presses the button on the side of his radio. “Got him. He’s not gonna be an issue.” His Brooklyn accent is something to focus on as he leans over me, grabs my phone from the ground, and rubs it along the side of his pants. The screen lights up, the seconds ticking away at the top of the screen. “Looks like you got voicemail.”

My call went through.

No answer.

He offers it back to me.

I take it.

I push end.

Try her again.

Nothing.

He stands over me, waiting.

There are footsteps, and I gaze over my shoulder. The crowd has grown, all eyes on me. A man dressed in chinos and a polo comes to stand beside me. He crosses his arms over his chest, and I spot the police department’s emblem over his heart.

The radio crackles to life. “Sending the team now.”

“10-4,” the guy in chinos replies. “You okay?”

I gaze between the two men and their differences in attire. He directs me to sit on the sidewalk, the two flanking me on either side. They whisper above me, and my lungs compress. I fight to get them to open. It’s like a vice grip keeps getting tighter and tighter.

Someone grabs me and directs me to lie back. A light shines in my eyes. An oxygen mask covers my mouth.

I pull it from my face, eyes blurry. “You don’t understand, please—”

“Blood pressure: one forty over ninety-six.” The gloved hand presses on my wrist, and the mask gets re-situated over my face. “Pulse: one thirty-eight.”

“What did he say?” someone asks.

I remove the mask. “I need to get to her.”

Their eyes meet and understanding passes between them. “Do you know the doctor in there? Is she family?”

I nod, my vision filling with black spots.

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