Page 13 of Absolution

The screen lights up.

54 missed calls.

Jackie. Her mom. Her dad. Her brother. Her Sister.

My stomach drops. The buzz is gone in a flash. I hit the last number, Jackie’s dad’s and throw the call on speaker as I yank my clothes on.

He picks up on the first ring. “Kyle.”

“What happened?”

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice is sharp.

“I… fell asleep at the office. What’s going on?”

A pause. Then: “The babies are here. Get to the hospital.”

The line goes dead.

For a second, I can’t move. Then I grab my shoes and bolt. Slam the door behind me and jab the elevator button.

It’s at the damn lobby. Of course it is.

Screw it. I take the stairs. Fourteen flights. I barely feel the burn as I run down, legs pumping, heart slamming against my ribs. Every floor I pass feels like it’s taking too long. Like I’m already too late.

I hit the ground level and shove the stairwell door open, bursting into the lobby. People look up, startled, but I don’t stop. Don’t even think. I don’t bother checking out. Let them charge me extra. The card’s on file.

Outside, the sun’s high. Blinding. I squint against it, running across the street to where I parked the car. My hand’s shaking as I dig for my keys.

I yank the door open, slide in, and jam the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, tires screeching as I peel out of the lot.

Please. Please. Let my family be okay.

I whisper it again, gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles go white.

My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out, unknown number. Probably the hospital.

I let it ring. “I’ll be there soon,” I mutter.

I don’t remember the rest of the drive. I just remember the panic, the street lights bleeding together, and the way my fingers wouldn’t stop shaking on the wheel. I blow through a yellow light two seconds too late, swear under my breath, and gun it toward the hospital entrance.

No time to park. I swerve up to the main loop, right where the ER drop-off is and throw it in park with the engine still running. Jumping out, I slam the door behind me. That’s when I see them, my in laws, Robert, standing out front, phone pressed to his ear. And Cory, pacing near the curb.

“Where is she?” I bark, already crossing the sidewalk.

“Room 306. Recovery,” Robert says quickly.

I toss the keys at Cory. “I left it out front.”

Then I’m gone. Legs moving before my brain catches up.

Nearly eight hours late. God, what the fuck was I thinking, putting my phone on silent with a pregnant wife at home.

Room 306. Recovery.

I stop short just inside the doorway.

She’s there. Jackie.

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